


Reeds and Cattails

by Rosesinthebathwater



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Post-His Last Vow, angst like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosesinthebathwater/pseuds/Rosesinthebathwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Mary pulls a gun on Sherlock and then John pulls a gun on Mary?  How did they get here and where are they going?  Post-HLV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any of the other illustrious characters found in this fanfiction. I tip my hat first to ACD and then to my favorite duo of paid fanfic writers - Mark Gatiss/Steven Moffat - as well as Hartswood Films (bravo Sue Vertue), the wonderful BBC (extra kudos to their Social Media folks) and my amazing daughter for getting me completely ensconced in this world. 
> 
> Tumblr prompt taken from the brilliance of irrevocably-johnlocked  
> Canon continuity taken from episodes transcribed by the lovely arianedevere  
> Plot points talked to death with thesupernaturallifeofawholockian
> 
> This work is now complete and there will be a sequel forthcoming. 
> 
> Gosh, sorry to the person whose comment I just deleted on my repeated post of Chapter 1! Obviously I'm learning the lay of the land here and I'm mucking through. I did read your comment and it made my heart sing. Love to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to thesupernaturallifeofawholockian for the beta. All mistakes are my own. Let me know if there are any glaring discrepancies.

The lamplight from outside the window pools in diagonal streaks on the uneven hardwood, coming through the cracks in the wooden panels which had been hastily nailed to the outside of the dilapidated house to keep out intruders.

John waits for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the building.  He listens intently and can hear the low sounds of voices murmuring from above his head.  

_Upstairs then._

Drawing his gun out of the back of his waistband, he weighs it carefully in his hand and smiles.  Crouching down, holding the gun steadily in front of him, John begins gliding silently across the large expanse of room.  He travels quickly, knowing it is just the two of them upstairs.  He had been waiting at the house for some time and saw them go in.  At the bottom of the stairs, he glances over his shoulder out of habit and it confirms that he is still alone.

John quickly ascends the old stairs. He keeps his steps on the tattered carpeting to muffle his climb.  He can still hear the murmuring voices - one he knows is Sherlock’s and the other is the soft, clipped tone of a woman.  He knows they will not be expecting him.

At the top of the stairs, John glances around the landing.  Wallpaper is peeling from the walls and the carpeting is shredded in some places.  There is only one large window at the end of the hall.  He waits another moment to let his eyes adjust in this darker area.  He listens intently and can identify that the voices are coming from the room at the end of the long hallway, nearest the window.

Keeping his back to the wall, John creeps quietly down the long hall and stands breathing deeply.  He can hear the voices more distinctly now.  He lowers one hand from the grip of his gun and reaches into his front pocket to pull out a handful of stones that he had shoved in there while he was hiding in the front garden, waiting for them both to arrive.  He works the largest one between his thumb and pointer finger and then throws it against the door opposite.  It makes a large hollow sound in the silent house.  The voices go immediately silent.  John listens intently.  No other sounds can be heard.  

In another beat, John throws the next stone and then two more in quick succession.  He can hear shuffling in the room and the woman’s low voice speaking urgently.  John leans his head back against the wall and takes a long calming breath as he hears the soft click of the door opening to his immediate left.  He does nothing as the door creaks open far enough for a small head to peer out. John sees this motion and cringes, his darkest fears confirmed.

“Hello,” he breathes quietly, aiming the gun directly at the woman’s forehead.

She blinks slowly and presses her lips tightly together.

“Open the door,” John says, stepping away from the wall and keeping the gun trained on her.  “Do it slowly.”

As the door swings open and John steps up in line with the woman, he is able to see past her to where Sherlock stands alone in the center of the empty room.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock? Mary?” John asks, gesturing with his free hand to the gun he has trained on the woman and then to the gun the woman has trained on Sherlock.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock acknowledges with a tip of his head.

Mary grimaces, but does not speak.

“I see now why you cancelled the doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” John says quietly, meeting Mary’s eyes.  “Had other more important things to do today?”

“Stay where you are, John!” Mary barks out.

“So how is this going to go exactly?” John asks, leaning forward slightly.

“John, leave us,” Sherlock tells him, holding up a placating hand and taking a step closer to Mary.

“Don’t move! Either of you!” Mary hisses in warning as John shakes his head adamantly.

“No, Sherlock,” John says, still shaking his head.  He looks past Mary to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  “Not this time.  Never again.”

 

OOooOO

 

The text alert sounded shrilly from the mobile lying on the side table. The hand that was poised in the air dropped gracefully and the sound of two staccato beats tapped the hardwood as the mobile was swiped soundlessly off the tabletop.

_\- Urgent matter to discuss. Call in 20 minutes._

~~

“Never thought I would hear from you again,” the voice purred softly.

“I’ve been hearing rumors.  What do you know?” A tired voice, speaking in low tones, dark and demanding.

“It’s nice to hear from you too,” the voice purred in response.

“I have exactly three minutes.”

A pause and then, “Yes. I have heard the same.”

A long sigh from the other end of the phone, “I need your help.”

“Has the Iceman gone?”

A dark laugh. “I can’t trust him.  It is about protection.”

“For you?”

“For John.”

The answering laugh was a knowing one. “How soon?”

“Immediately. Where should I wire the money?”

“I will make some inquiries. It will be done by Monday, I’ll text you the details.  Let’s have dinner.”

The mobile beeped and Lost Call lit up on the screen.  The woman tapped her long red nail on the edge of the phone, a small smile pulling up the corner of her lips.

The text alert sounded shrilly.

_\- Thank you_

~~

John leaned his forehead against the window of the cab, the cool glass comforting.  He watched the water run in rivulets down the window as he pulled back slowly and tried to focus on his purpose.

Glancing around the interior of the black cab, he sighed heavily.  He would never need to take the tube again.  Sherlock had made sure of that.

_Sherlock -_

John huffed a breath and shut his eyes heavily.  Shifting unconsciously, he opened his mouth to ask the driver to turn around, to bring him home.  Snapping shut his mouth and snapping open his eyes, John inhaled deeply through his nose, pushing all of his thoughts of Sherlock away. It had been eight months; it was time.

The cab pulled up before Sarah’s clinic. John took another deep breath before leaning forward, paying the cabbie and handing him a handsome tip.

“Thanks, mate,” the cabbie said gratefully.

John took a moment to look - to really see the man glancing over his shoulder in the driver’s seat.  Ginger hair, kind eyes, sincere appreciation in his smile.  John thought suddenly of a starving artist, driving a cab, trying to make ends meet.  He knocked on the glass and hauled himself out of the cab, turning to face the entrance of the clinic.

John clenched his hand tighter around the rucksack swinging at this side.  A short queue had already formed on the pavement next to the entrance door.  Folks were shifting from side to side, pulling coats tighter and hiding under hoods from the light rain.  He turned his attention to the front door and stepped up to punch the code into the door’s keypad.

“You the new doc here?”

John turned toward the voice, hand pulling the door toward him.  He froze for a moment, taking in the thin kid clutching a gray hoodie tightly around him, dark brown eyes and a smudge of blue paint on his hand.  John’s heart constricted in his chest and a question formed on his lips as he realised he was already nodding his answer to the question. He let go of the door and turned to face the kid full on.

In that short instant, the scruffy stranger had already melted into the walkers hurriedly passing one another on the way to work.

“Raz!” John called desperately, raising on his toes, trying to peer through the moving crowd over and under umbrellas.

“Raz, wait! Stop!”

John turned quickly to look in the opposite direction, his rucksack swinging into a woman who had just come up to stand next to him before the door.

“Sorry -- I’m sorry,” John stuttered to the woman distractedly, still trying to pick Raz out of the crowd.

“Dr. Watson?” the woman asked, raising her hand to place it carefully on John’s arm, pulling his attention back to her.

John turned in her direction impatiently.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Doctor.  I’m Mary - Mary Morstan.  I - today is my first day.  Dr. Sawyer said to report to you.  I’m the new nurse,” she explained.

John blinked slowly and took her in.  

 _About 5’3, shapely, short blonde hair._  

He forced a smile onto his face as he glanced one last time up the street and stepped back up to keypad, punching in the numbers and quickly opening the door.  He held it wide for her to enter first.

“Ah, yes,” he said haltingly, following her through the short hall and clicking on a bank of light switches at the end.  

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he said again.

Mary smiled at him kindly.  “It’s alright,” she assured him, “It is a Monday morning after all.”

~~

John slid his hand over his hair while glancing at the clock.  At exactly 4 pm, there was a soft knock on his exam room door and Mary opened it just enough to stick her head in.

“Is there anything else, Dr. Watson?” she asked smiling her kind smile.

John stood up quickly causing Mary to open the door wider and actually step into the room.

“Yes, actually.  I was wondering…”John began.

Mary continued to smile brightly at him.

“Would you… are you hungry?  Would you like to have some dinner?” John finished lamely.

Mary quirked her head to the side.

“Are you asking me out?” she asked him.

John shifted from one foot to the other.

“No,” he said quickly.

Mary’s eyes grew wider with surprise.

“Well, actually, um, yes,” John amended.  “Um, I just thought if you were hungry, we could get some dinner together.”

“Dinner?” Mary repeated.  “Like right now?  This evening?”

John ran a hand quickly over his hair.

“Too soon,” he observed.  “It’s no problem, really; I know we just met.  I don’t even know if you’re seeing someone.”

Mary rocked forward onto the balls of her feet.

“No, no,” she said.  “It’s not too soon at all.  Actually, yeah, dinner - that would be nice.”

John gaped at her.

He snapped his mouth shut when he realized it was open.

“Great,” he said, a large smile lighting up his face.

Mary returned the smile.  

“Thank you so much,” she said, “Yeah, it would be lovely really; I rarely go out on Monday nights.”

Mary turned to walk out of the exam room door and John held it for her.  He followed her down the short hall where they each turned in the opposite direction heading into their respective locker rooms to get the rest their things.

“Ready?” John asked, stepping back into the hall.

“I’ve just got to make a quick call,” Mary told him, fiddling with her mobile.

“I’ll get the cab,” he replied, reaching to lift her bag up off of her shoulder.

She smiled at him and let him take the bag.

“I won’t be but a minute,” she responded, punching a number and putting the mobile to her ear as the door swung shut behind him.

~~

John took Mary to a Chinese restaurant a few blocks from the clinic.  He liked Chinese food and this happened to be one of the few restaurants that he and Sherlock had never eaten at.  They talked about their work, their families.  They both ordered Chicken with dumplings and egg rolls and then laughed about it after.  When they were finished, Mary fixed John with a level gaze.

“Dr. Watson,” she began.

“Call me John, please,” he told her, leaning back in his seat.

“John then,” she said.  “John, didn’t you work with that great detective? The one who…”

Mary’s eyes got wide and she covered her mouth with her hand.

John had shut his eyes and leaned forward heavily, his forearms on the table.

“Oh gosh,” she said in a whisper, taking her hand from her mouth.  “Gosh, I am so sorry.”

John gave her a sad smile.

“No, please, don’t apologize,” he said, shaking his head.

“Am I an insensitive idiot or what?” Mary asked, visibly horrified.  “Listen to me talking about him like he’s just any stupid celebrity.”

John continued to shake his head.

“He was your friend,” she observed.  “Gosh, I’m so sorry, Dr. Watson - uh, John.”

John blew out a big breath and tapped her hand softly.

“Really Mary, it’s not a big deal.  I understand.  It’s a strange and fascinating tale from the outside.”

John pulled a tight smile.

“But still, I wasn’t thinking,” she protested.

There was a long pause in which neither of them spoke and Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“He seemed a brilliant man,” she offered finally.

John smiled up at her.  “He was.”


	2. The Road to Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to thesupernaturallifeofawholockian for the beta. All mistakes are my own. Let me know if there are any glaring discrepancies.

Mary shifts her weight slightly as she keeps her eyes on John and her gun aimed at Sherlock. Both of the men have taken her advice and no one is speaking. The only sounds in the room are the three of them breathing, loudly and fairly rapidly. No one moves. After a few long moments, the silence is shattered.

“John, please. You must leave.” It is Sherlock speaking, the baritone at normal modulation.

John’s eyes get wide, he cringes at the sudden sound and takes another unconscious step toward Sherlock.

“I will kill him this time for real,” Mary warns, still in a hissed whisper.

John tears his eyes away from Sherlock and looks at Mary. He laughs bitterly and shifts back to his previous position.

“Why don’t you shoot me instead?” John asks her. “I mean, you may as well. This situation has about killed me already.”

This time Mary cringes but her hands remain steady.

“My wife, you are,” John reminds her. “My wife!” The last word comes out with venom and John gestures with his gun in her direction.

“I took you back, after you shot him the first time,” he reminds her. “And you,” he says indicating Sherlock with his head, “You are the one who convinced me to do it!”

“This isn’t about you, John,” she exclaims impatiently.

“Listen to Mary,” Sherlock tells him.

“Shut up!” John’s voice is steel. “Shut up, the two of you!” 

Sherlock and Mary remain silent for a long moment as John shifts his gaze to the floor.

He takes a deep calming breath and then looks up again, realizing that the gun is listing just a little to the right of Mary, away from the side that Sherlock is standing on. He looks straight at Mary first and then shifts to look directly at Sherlock.

“Tell me,” he says in his best Captain’s voice, looking between them again, “which one of you is going to tell me the truth about what exactly is going on?”  


Turing to settle his gaze on Mary, he asks, “Why do I follow you into an empty house and why do I come in to find your gun trained on my best friend?” 

Neither Sherlock nor Mary speak, though Sherlock does shift and glance in Mary’s direction.

“This isn’t about you, John,” Mary says again.

John pulls himself to his full height, resighting the gun on Mary’s chest as he smoothly flicks the safety off and draws his free hand up to grip the bottom of the gun.

“This woman is carrying your child,” Sherlock reminds him coldly.

OOooOO

The smell of chlorine was heavy in the air, even in the upper gallery where the snipers were lying in wait in the darkness. Four of them, dressed from head to foot in black, could not be seen from the pool deck below so they watched with professional interest as the scene played out beneath them. The tension was ratcheting up and suddenly the man covered in semtex had lept onto the back of Jim Moriarty. A small circular hole had been cut in the wall at the very end of the gallery and the tip of a sniper rifle just peeked through the other side. At this provocation, the sniper at this station quickly leaned in and immediately trained the red laser sighting on the forehead of the world’s only consulting detective.

The sniper took a deep breath and held it for three beats, letting it out slowly. Still no order to shoot. The man in semtex noticed the laser trail and backed hurriedly off, raising his hands in a placating motion in the direction of the snipers. It was difficult to hear the low baritone of Sherlock Holmes, but the loud banter from Moriarty clearly filtered into the gallery.

All this time, the sniper remained immobile, sights still resting on the consulting detective. After continued discussion, Moriarty turned and sauntered out the side door. In a matter of beats, the detective followed but returned quickly. The sniper retracted the rifle and waited for the dismissal signal which never came. Instead, the snipers returned to the alert; Moriarty planned to re-enter the building. 

In ready position, the sniper tensed for a long moment when the mobile rang loud in the silent pool area. Taking a calming breath and holding it for three beats, the sniper waited for the command to come. Still nothing. Moriarty had an animated conversation with the person on the mobile and then, almost immediately, turned and walked to the door opposite the one he had just entered. Just before opening it, he gave the dismissal signal. All snipers had been called off. That was it - job over. 

No matter, fifty percent of the funds were already reflected in each snipers bank account and tomorrow the other fifty percent would be deposited. It was still a let-down however, for all of them. Mary, especially, preferred to earn her money doing real work rather than taking up space.

~~

Mary’s burner phone rang in the small hours of the morning. She was awake instantaneously and across the room to pull the small phone out of her top dresser drawer. Mary pulled her dressing gown down from the hook on the back of her bedroom door and slipped it on one arm as with the other she put the phone to her ear.

“Adler,” she said in greeting, “It’s been a long time.”

“Mary Morstan,” Irene replied.

There was silence on the phone for a long moment as Mary shrugged on the rest of her dressing gown.

“It’s a clean line,” Mary told her. “Go on.”

“Deep cover private job,” Irene said quickly, “for a personal friend. Are you still on your own? Dear Jim had you on his list of contacts. Said you were one of the best in the business.”

“I didn’t know you knew -” Mary began.

“I knew what he liked.”

“Yeah, I did a few jobs here and there. Free agent then, free agent now,” Mary replied. 

“Around the clock care, this,” Irene said, a funny lilt in her voice.

Mary pinched the bridge of her nose. She could do with the money but didn’t really want to deal with the demands; it would be a tough call.

“Interested?” Irene asked the silence.

“Local job?” Mary asked.

“Still in London?” Irene replied.

“Yes.”

“Then local it is.” Irene remarked.

“How long?” Mary asked her.

“As long as it takes.”

“Go on,” Mary said again.

“Protection for a friend of a friend,” Irene explained. “Long term, deep cover as I said.”

“Target?”

“I think you may know him,” Irene remarked.

Mary rubbed her free hand over the back of her neck. This might go bad fast.

“One Doctor John H. Watson,” Irene announced. “Friend and colleague to the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary did not reply but her eyes got wider in the semi-darkness of her bedroom.

“In the door by Monday, as close to around the clock as you can get it as quickly as you can get it,” Irene outlined, “Name your price.”

“Employer?” Mary asked.

“Confidential,” Irene purred.

“Give me ten minutes, I’ll text you the account details,” Mary agreed, furrowing her brow.

~~

It took Mary Morstan about three months to convince John Watson that the better living arrangement would be for him to leave the flat at 221 B Baker Street and take up residence with her at the small house she had just acquired from her anonymous employer for this purpose.  


Living at Baker Street was like living in a museum. Mary hated going there; everything in the place belonged to John’s dead flatmate and Mary used this angle to make her point as often as she could.  


The move itself was quick - a few boxes of books, clothes and some things from the kitchen, along with two framed photos were all John brought with him to the new house. He could probably have fit it all in a cab, but Mycroft had a car waiting and Anthea stood at the bottom of the stairs refusing to argue with him once he realized that Mycroft had figured out his plan.  


Once whisked away to Mary’s charming house, it took only two hours to organize all of his things.  


“And you’re sure there’s nothing else?” Mary was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.  


John looked up at her from where he knelt putting a few DVD cases on the shelf of the bottom of his new entertainment center.  


“Nothing else belongs to me,” he told her again.  


“Wow, that Sherlock, he sure was a pack-rat,” Mary observed. “I told you it was like living in a museum. It was so unhealthy, John. What are you going to do with the rest of his things now that you are gone?”  


John cringed as he usually did when someone mentioned his friend, but he did not respond to Mary’s question, looking blankly past her toward the kitchen.  


“John,” Mary said, drawing his attention to her.  


John returned his gaze to her, blinking slowly.  


“I asked what you were going to do with the rest of his things?” she reminded him gently.  


“Oh, yeah, sorry,” John stammered. “His brother - Mycroft - will take care of it. And Mrs. Hudson, I imagine.”  


Mary nodded.  


“If there’s anything I can do,” she suggested kindly.  


“No,” John cut her off quickly. “No, no, it’s fine.”  


She gazed at him impassively.  


“But thank you,” he finished lamely, sitting back on his heels and using the coffee table to push himself up to a stand.  


John rubbed his leg absently.  


“Mind if I cook dinner?” he asked, walking toward her and giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek, “I could use the distraction.” 

~~

After the move in with Mary, John Watson became a creature of habit. He woke every day at the same time (except for Sunday when he allowed himself a lie-in), he joined a gym (he went three times a week in the morning before work), he packed lunch every night before bed (ham and swiss) and he ate with Mary at noon in the small breakroom of the clinic (two bags of crisps from the machine down the hall). Every Saturday evening, John would take Mary out for dinner. The only thing that was unpredictable about his new life is that they would take turns choosing a different restaurant every week.  


If you asked John Watson about this new habitual nature, he would tell you that he had finally found the happiness he had been searching for. That’s what he told his friends: Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson. It’s also what he told his therapist, Ella. They all nodded and gave him a tight smile. John might be all smiles and good-natured on the outside, but he was still a rage of chaos and anger on the inside. Occasionally this forced calm would crack just a bit - usually if someone mentioned Sherlock or he saw a new tabloid photo or something happened that reminded him of a particular case - and people would see a hollowness to John’s face and a little bit of favoring of his leg, just until the moment passed.  


A year into John’s new habitual life, he made a decision to make another major change. He went shopping for an engagement ring. He made reservations at Mary’s favorite restaurant - a bit more upscale than they were used to - and he tucked the little ring into his pocket and then led Mary out the door of their charming little house, flagging down a taxi and heading in the direction of another new life.


	3. The Fraying of Edges

John looks angrily to Sherlock, but does not lower his weapon.

“Then _you_ tell me what the bloody hell is going on here!” John barks at him.

“Mary and I have a situation to discuss,” Sherlock responds coolly, putting his hands in his coat pockets.

John glares at him.

“And this discussion has to take place in an abandoned house with a gun pointing at your chest?” John asks. “What is wrong with Baker Street?”

“She isn’t going to shoot me,” Sherlock says, ignoring John’s question.

John barks a high pitched laugh.

“She just needed some assurance that I would come along with her,” Sherlock explains.

“Fine then,” John agrees.  “Here you are; Mary, you can put the gun away now.”

Mary looks from John to Sherlock who returns her gaze pointedly.

“Alright John, we’ll do it your way then,” Mary concedes.  “I am going to lower my gun and then slowly place it on the floor.”

“Kick it over here when you do,” John tells her.

This time it is Mary who barks the laugh.

“Leave it, John,” Sherlock bites out.

“When I put the gun on the floor, I expect you to do the same,” Mary tells John.

“Why don’t you just go?” Sherlock suggests.

John whips his gaze to Sherlock.

“I am not leaving!  Stop telling me to,” he spits.

“Look John, if Mary puts down the gun and you step outside that door, I am sure that Mary and I can manage to settle our differences here in just the span of a few moments,” Sherlock tells him.

John shrugs.  “It’s not going to happen, Sherlock.  Something has been going on between you two since Mary visited you in the hospital.  I’m not an idiot, though I know you don’t actually believe that.”

“Mary?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m putting the gun down now,” Mary responds, slowly lowering her weapon and crouching awkwardly to the floor.

“John,” Sherlock demands.

John clicks the safety back on and lowers the weapon but it does not leave his hand.

“I’ll just lean over here against the wall,” John tells them, slowly backing up next to the door.  “And you two can just get on with it.”  
Mary and Sherlock are both watching John as he leans up against the wall and crosses his feet at the ankles, the gun resting at his side.

“Go on, get on with it,” John tells them.

Mary turns slowly back to Sherlock.

“I did not have any idea,” Sherlock tells her.  “How could you think that I set you up?”

There is a long pause while Mary seems to consider these words of Sherlock’s.

“You knew, Sherlock,” Mary argues.  “You knew the moment that you stepped back into John’s life what the situation was and yet, you remained silent.”

John looks from Mary to Sherlock and realizes that he is no longer leaning impassively against the wall.  He is standing at attention as the tension in the room keeps climbing higher.

“It is true,” Sherlock admits lowering his head.  “I did nothing, but only because it was obvious how much you and John loved one another.”

Mary is shaking her head to this.

“That is not fair, Sherlock,” she says.  “That is so clearly not fair. Look at this situation now.  This mess, this is all because of you.”

 

OOooOO

 

Sherlock revealed himself to John at the small, posh restaurant where John had taken Mary to propose.  He dressed himself up in black tie and came swooping back into John’s life at the very moment John had chosen to shut the door on his past and spend his future with Mary.

After being thrown out of the final of three different restaurants for fighting, Mary stood apart with Sherlock as John flagged down a cab from a little farther up the road.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, head tipped back as he pinched the bridge of his nose and held a napkin to it to staunch the flow of blood.  “I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

Mary looked at him curiously.

“Gosh. You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?” she asked.

Sherlock lowered his head to look at her.

.“Mmm, nature? No.  Human… No,” he replied.

“I’ll talk him round,” Mary promised.

Sherlock took the napkin from under his nose and looked at her curiously.

“You will?” he asked, surprised.

Mary smiled at him confidently.  “Oh yeah,” she agreed.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side as a few deductions coalesced around the person of Mary, but Sherlock brushed these all to the side as Mary had come via the Woman and Sherlock knew that the Woman would never let him down.

He watched as Mary walked over to get into the taxi with John who still refused to look in his direction.  Sherlock sighed as the car sped past with John resolutely turned in Mary’s direction, not even a wave of acknowledgement for his not-dead flatmate.  Sherlock turned, pulling up the collar on his woolen coat,  to walk the rest of the way back to the flat at Baker Street.  His mobile chirped with a text alert.

\- _I don’t want to say I told you so, brother mine_.

\- _Then don’t. SH_

\- _It’s been two years, he’s got on with his life._

\- _Don't repeat yourself, Mycroft.  It’s unbecoming. SH_

Sherlock frowned and his footsteps slowed as he ran the situation between Mary and John over in his mind.  After a few moments he sent another text to his brother.

\- _What do you know of Mary Morstan? SH_

\- _More than would fit into a text_

Sherlock changed course then and flagged down a taxi promising a hefty tip if the driver could get him to Mycroft’s in under ten minutes. They arrived with two minutes to spare.

~~

 

The door opened as soon as Sherlock stepped up to it.

“Mr. Holmes,” Anthea greeted from the adjacent study.

“Do you sleep here?” Sherlock asked petulantly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack.

“Wait, no, don’t answer that,” he said quickly, stepping into the doorway.

Anthea frowned at him.  “Covered in blood?  Should I be surprised?”

She motioned behind her in the direction of the loo.  “Perhaps you would like to clean up first?  Your brother is waiting in the drawing room.  He asked me to give you this.”

Anthea handed Sherlock a dossier.  He flipped it open immediately and had started scanning the documents as he walked down the wooden paneled hallway toward the drawing room.

“Mycroft,” he said tightly, stepping through the oak archway.

Mycroft sat in a leather wingback chair before a roaring fire with a glass of cognac and a sweet-smelling cigar.

“Are you celebrating something?” Sherlock asked him, eyes taking in the atmosphere.

Mycroft waved him to the seat opposite and raised his glass in a mock toast.

“It’s not every day your brother returns to you from the dead, Sherlock,” he said.  “You needn't come back looking so damaged. I thought we did a great job cleaning you up the first time.  Guess the discussion with John didn’t go quite as planned?”

Sherlock scoffed and took the seat.

“As if you ever suspected I was dead,” Sherlock told him, ignoring the dig at his current appearance.

“Well, I did grow concerned those first few weeks,” Mycroft confessed.  “But I should have known that you would contact me as soon as something didn’t go your way.”

“Didn’t go my way?” Sherlock began.

Mycroft held up his hand.  

“Why don’t we let bygones be bygones,” he said dismissively, gesturing to the file in Sherlock’s hand.  “I believe you have ‘bigger fish to fry’ as they say, brother dear. Why don’t you step into the loo and get cleaned up?”

“Tell me,” Sherlock said, shutting the folder and leaning back into the chair, steepling his fingers at his chin. He completely ignored Mycroft’s suggestion to clean up.

“Mary Morstan,” Mycroft began,  “arrived in London five years ago.  Orphaned, works as a nurse at the clinic with Dr. Watson.  The two began dating her first day of work there.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Sherlock scowled at him.

“I have reason to believe that she has had specialized training in firearms and code-breaking,” he continued.

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock asked.

“A little bird told me,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock’s scowl deepened.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Well little brother, it seems like a pretty big coincidence.” Mycroft raised the cigar to his mouth and took a drag.

“I believe that someone hired Ms. Morstan to get close to our dear Dr. Watson.  I just don’t yet know who and I don’t yet know why,” he finished.

Sherlock sat back in the chair keeping his face completely inscrutable.

“Do you think John is in danger?” Sherlock asked after a few long moments.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

“I haven’t been able to determine if Ms. Morstan is working to harm our good doctor or to protect him.”

Sherlock nodded his head.

“I’ve got them both under surveillance,” Mycroft allowed.  “It will only be a matter of time until I sort it.”

Sherlock leaned forward.  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

Mycroft regarded Sherlock carefully.

“If she was going to hurt him, he would have been hurt by now, don’t you think?”  Sherlock asked, “Besides I am home now and I would be happy to keep an eye on the happy couple.”

Mycroft did not reply but took a sip of his cognac.

“As you wish, brother dear,” he said after a long, thoughtful silence.

 

~~

 

Sherlock worked hard to repair his broken relationship with John Watson. Most of his penance in this regard had to do with acknowledging the place that Mary Morstan had in John’s life.  Sherlock spent many long hours lying on the sofa in 221 B Baker Street, hands resting together in his thinking pose, considering the puzzle of Mary Morstan.  Regardless of how Sherlock felt about her or what it was that drew Mary into John’s life, it was glaringly obvious that John was smitten and Mary equally so.  From this point forward, Sherlock realized that to keep John Watson in his life, Sherlock would need to make peace with what he called “the Mary situation”.

Sherlock’s mobile sighed heavily and he shut his eyes meaningfully.  After a few moments, he opened them and fished the mobile out of his inner jacket pocket.

\- _This is a conundrum.  Let’s have dinner; talk it out._

Sherlock frowned down at the mobile taking many long moments to reply.

\- _You promised total anonymity - SH_

\- _I also promised you the best_

Sherlock slipped the mobile back into his jacket pocket, resumed his thinking pose and shut his eyes heavily.  

In the end, Sherlock resolved not to do anything.  He realized that to continue his working relationship with John Watson, he would need to begin fostering a real relationship with Mary, who he was forced to acknowledge was not as tedious as any of the other women John had spent his time with.  

This steadfast resolve almost cracked however, when Mary came to Sherlock one November night, insisting that John was in danger.  She showed him the skip code and events spiraled quickly out of control.  

After being forced to rescue John out of the bonfire at the Guy Fawkes celebration, Sherlock was overcome with fear, hardly able to stop shaking, unable to deduce what had happened and who had put John in danger.  Standing with Mary, over a barely conscious John Watson, Sherlock realized that he was rambling.  He saw Mary look at him sharply and he snapped his mouth shut to stop the stream of words from flowing.

Sitting in the hospital, across from one another, in the sterile, white waiting room, Mary pinned Sherlock with a withering stare. Sherlock regarded her steadily. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, determined to speak.  

“Family of John Watson?” a doctor asked, materializing in the waiting room.

Mary and Sherlock stood together in one fluid motion, the action forcing them to acknowledge the reality. John Watson was the common denominator, one they would work together to protect - the moment of confrontation shattered, forever.

 

 


	4. Where Loyalties Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, I was a bit preoccupied over the last few days so I never got around to betaing the chapter. Hope you enjoy it now that it's up! Cheers! -thesecretlifeofawholockian

Sherlock lifts his head slowly.  He sees John in his peripheral vision, standing tall, no longer leaning impassively on the wall.  He meets Mary’s eyes instead.

“Mary, I never expected this to happen.  You’re a professional for God’s sake. I had no plan in place for … _this_!” he spits, waving his hand vaguely between her and John and then turning around.

The air is heavy with tension.  John sees Mary’s shoulders sag.

“You know John Watson, Sherlock,” Mary reminds him.  “If you were taken in, how do you expect anyone else to be immune to his honest brilliance?”

"I.am.standing.right.here.” John bites out, shifting forward.

Sherlock turns around and looks past Mary, meeting John’s eyes.

“Oh John,” Mary breathes.

“So let me get this right,” John begins in a low voice, as the pieces begin to fall together.  “The two of you know one another?  You actually KNOW one another and neither of you intended to tell me about this?”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “That’s not true,” he says emphatically.

“So what’s the connection then?”  John asks.

“It’s you,” Sherlock tells him, blinking slowly and remembering the wedding.

_It’s you. John Watson, you keep me right._

To the side, Mary deflates a little more and Sherlock turns his attention from John to Mary.

"I was hired,” she whispers softly; so softly that John almost misses what she says.

There is a long pause while John tries to make sense of what she has just said.

“Hired?” John asks flatly.

“Hired to protect you!” Sherlock exclaims.

This time, it is John who deflates, stumbling back to the wall and clutching at it with his free hand.  His eyes grow wide.

“You, Sherlock?  You did this?” John asks, shaking his head in disbelief.  “What? How? How could you have done this without telling me?  WHY would you have done this without telling me?”

“I was dead, John,” Sherlock points out.  “I couldn’t very well tell you.”

John looks from Sherlock to Mary who isn’t meeting his gaze.

“Why?” John asks again.  “Why would you do this?”

Sherlock walks past Mary to stand in front of John who is leaning heavily against the wall.  His eyes look green in the dim light and he looks at John beseechingly.

“Your safety…” Sherlock begins, eyes locked onto John’s.  “Your safety always comes first.”

John pushes his free hand through his hair.

“But you were gone, Sherlock,” John tells him, trying to make sense of the situation.  “You were dead.  How could I still have been in danger?”

Sherlock drops his gaze and turns back to look directly at Mary.

“I knew then that Mycroft suspected that Moriarty was back,” Sherlock says quietly.

John snaps up from against the wall as though his back is on fire.  He pushes Sherlock forward with his free hand and snaps up his gun to the ready position as Sherlock stumbles toward Mary.

“What?  What in God’s name did you just say?” John asks.  He frowns because he’s unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

Sherlock turns around slowly, taking in John’s demeanour.  He is unsure whether he has a platform to explain.  He waits silently, watching as a myriad of emotions cascade over John’s face.

“I heard rumors,” Sherlock begins.

John regards him with interest and does not interrupt so Sherlock continues. John lowers the gun.

“As I was working to take down the rest of Moriarty’s network, I had been hearing more stories.  Mycroft confirmed and finally, I contacted - The Woman,” Sherlock tells him, lowering his gaze.

John growls low in his throat.

Mary cocks her head to the side and regards John with interest.

"Irene Adler,” John breathes out, shaking his head.  “ _The Woman_ , of course...Obviously death has no effect on you - or any of the people you know.  I should be so lucky…”  
   

“I contacted _her_ to get you some protection,” Sherlock explains.

“Why not Mycroft?” John asks.

“Because Mycroft’s men would have been too obvious, John,” Sherlock answers.  “You would have known they were tailing you, and so would Moriarty.”

John notices that Sherlock is tapping his fingers on the sleeve of his coat.  He is nervous.

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock confesses quietly.  “I didn’t know what Moriarty had planned and I had no way to deduce it.  I was so far away.  I just needed… I just needed to know you were safe.  And I knew that _she_ could get that done for me. She would know the best in the business.”

John looks over at Mary then.  

“The best in the business,” he breathes. “Of course you would know Irene Adler.”  

Mary does not respond.

“Look at you now -” John rasps, waving his hand in her direction.  “Now you’re pregnant.     Certainly not at the top of your game, if you ask me.”

Mary visibly shrinks under the accusation and Sherlock takes one step to the right, putting himself between John and Mary.

“If you believe nothing else today,” Sherlock tells him.  “You must believe… you must KNOW that Mary truly does love you, John.”

 

OOooOO

 

After John’s overnight hospital stay, Sherlock and Mary reached an unspoken truce.  Neither of them expected to expose the other’s motivations as far as John Watson was concerned.  They both knew that keeping John safe had become the mortar that held their own fragile relationship together.

Sherlock continued to assess the Mary situation as time went on and he lay on his back on the sofa in Baker Street.  He knew however, on the day that John had come over, had asked Sherlock to be his best man, had confided that Sherlock was indeed his _best friend_ , that Sherlock would take his knowledge of Mary and the part he, himself, played in their blossoming relationship to the grave. John had found the happiness that he had so long been seeking and he was inviting Sherlock to be a part of that.

Sherlock and Mary never spoke about this arrangement, though they both knew it for what it was.  The two became friends for John’s sake and Sherlock had to admit that Irene had done him a great favor in finding Mary.  No matter what happened from this point forward, Sherlock could be confident in the knowledge that Mary honestly loved John and would do everything in her power to protect him.

 

~~

 

Sherlock peered around the door which was open just a crack.  He could not see through the frosted glass, but he knew that there was someone still in the room with Magnussen.  As he opened the door silently, he saw Magnussen on his knees, hands behind his head, a gun pointed in his direction by someone dressed all in black.  He could hear Magnussen’s anxious murmur.

“Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume...Lady Smallwood,” Sherlock said clearly, stepping into the room.

The assassin shifted and Magnussen straightened a little, breathing out a long shaky breath.

“Sorry, who?” he asked, looking from Sherlock back to the face of the assassin, “That’s - not - Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock frowned and the person in black turned to face him, aimed the pistol at his chest and looked up into his eyes.

In front of him stood Mary Watson. Taking in the scene, the many deductions from before begin drifting around her until one settled in his mind, next to this image of her with a gun - _LIAR_.

“Is John with you?” Mary asked.

“He’s um…” Sherlock responded shakily.

“Is John here?” Mary asked more forcefully.

“He - he’s downstairs.”

Mary nodded knowingly.

“So what do you do now?” Magnussen asked from behind her, “Kill us both?”

Mary glanced in his direction and turned back to Sherlock.

“Mary,” Sherlock began, “whatever he’s got on you, let me help.”  

He moved as if to take a step toward her.

“Oh Sherlock,” said Mary, exasperatedly, “if you take one more step I swear I will kill you.”

“No Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock said, shaking his head and smiling, “you won’t.”

He took a step toward her then and suddenly it felt as if his chest were on fire.  He looked down to see a small red stain beginning to spread across his white shirt.  He looked confused.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Truly am.”

He could hear Mary speaking from far away.

“Mary?”

The force of the gunshot propelled him backward.  Concentrating hard, he realized that there was a silencer on the gun.  John would not be immediately alerted to the shot. As he hit the floor, he closed his eyes thankfully.

When he opened them again, he saw John through a haze of pain. He couldn’t concentrate, but he could hear a voice in the distance that he recognized as John.

“Sherlock.  We’re losing you, Sherlock?”

 

~~

 

Images kept shifting, converging in Sherlock’s mind and he wasn’t sure how much of what happened was reality and what kept surfacing from the filed away places in his mind palace.  He understood enough to know that he was in a semi-conscious state, the blanket of morphine keeping the worst of the pain away.  

Sherlock kept remembering Mary’s voice.  Speaking in low, urgent tones. In his mind’s eye there was an image of himself lying on the carpet, blood blossoming on his white shirt and Mary, turned back to Magnussen, gesturing quickly, then Magnussen falling to the side.  She had struck him and knocked him out cold. He thought he saw her pull out her mobile then and dial, calling for an ambulance.  But was this real or was this the morphine creating these pictures in his mind?

Sherlock focused on the closing door.  Janine had just left and he was thinking again of John and Mary.  Turning down the morphine drip that he had just turned back up, Sherlock frowned in the bed and tried to concentrate.

He remembered the same scene - the bird’s eye view of himself, Mary and Magnussen, just after he had been shot.  So it was real - there in his memory.  He concentrated harder and tried to put himself back into that scene, where he lay on the carpeting, blinking slowly as the life leaked from his chest.

“It is impossible that Moriarty is back.”

Sherlock remembered Mary saying these words. He tensed suddenly and had to let out a long breath, his wound aching threateningly. He calmed himself and returned to that place in his mind palace forcing himself to pick up the thread.

“He asked me to give you a message,” Magnussen had said.  “He told me to remind you of the pool, ask where your loyalties really lie…”

“There are no loyalties!” Mary exclaimed, angrily.  “I was a hired gun, you know that is the truth.”

“It doesn’t matter what I know,” Magnussen teased. “What matters is what your husband will believe.  Will dear Dr. Watson believe that you had no knowledge of the job you were undertaking - a sniper trained on Sherlock Holmes?  Will he believe that you have no ill will toward his friend?  Or will dear John begin to think that perhaps this was an entire setup - you getting close to him, biding your time, waiting for Sherlock’s return….to kill him for real when he least expects it?”

Mary drew back and hit Magnussen hard with the gun along the side of his face.

As Magnussen fell again in his memory, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and his hand went back to the morphine drip.  He was breathing heavily, every breath causing a sharp pain through his midsection.  He turned the morphine up as high as it could go and fell back into a drug induced haze for the time being.


	5. Miscalculations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm betaing chapter by chapter, I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and read the entire story as a whole. If you notice any glaring discrepancies, please let me know so that they can be fixed and the continuity of the story can continue to run smoothly. Enjoy!

John pulls himself up to his full height, his free hand clenching into a fist by his side.  The hand holding the gun actually shakes just a little bit.

“You say that like I should believe _anything_ you have to say, Sherlock,” John reminds him, venom dripping from his voice.

Sherlock pulls a long sigh.

“John, I know this situation is difficult for you right now,” Sherlock begins.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John exclaims, dropping the gun to the floor and advancing on him quickly.

Sherlock does not try to stop him as John takes a swing which connects with his jaw. For a moment, it’s as if John sees in slow motion - Sherlock is getting closer; his hand is swinging, connecting with Sherlock’s jaw and then Sherlock’s head is snapping to the side, his entire body swaying from the force.

John scrambles back quickly.

“I - I - I’m sorry…” he stammers, sinking to the floor with his back against the wall.

Sherlock rights himself and glances back at Mary who looks pained but has remained silent.  Rubbing his face gingerly, he takes three large steps to where John has pressed himself against the wall next to the door and kneels down in front of him.

John is breathing heavily, his eyes wide, hands shaking uncontrollably.

Sherlock notes the first signs of a full-blown panic attack and his insides turn to ice. He knows that John would rather die than have Mary or himself see John like this.  This, John believes, is a state of weakness.

Sherlock has expected that this unfolding situation would eventually overwhelm John. Not that John has a fragile constitution, but because John is a person who feels very deeply and the PTSD though fairly dormant never goes away completely.  Sherlock is not unaware that the lies that have shaped John’s life over the past three years have totally encompassed everything John had thought to be his reality. Sherlock is honestly surprised it has taken this long.

“Put your head between your knees,” Sherlock commands baritone voice low, hands out to grasp John’s shoulders but not actually touching him.  

John’s eyes shoot to Mary as his breathing becomes more shallow.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder at Mary who is standing and watching the scene unfold with her arms crossed above her pregnant belly. Her expression is something that Sherlock can’t make out.

“Mary, step out,” Sherlock orders.

Mary looks from John to Sherlock.  She squares her shoulders defiantly.

“I said step out,” Sherlock bites out.  “I’m here, I’m obviously not going anywhere. John needs a few minutes.”

Mary does not respond but then she walks quickly out the door.

“Put your head between your knees,” Sherlock says again softer, but this time he places his hand on the back of John’s head to guide it down.

For a few moments, John fights him but then he lowers his head and wretches.  He struggles to try to even out his breathing and he wretches again.  Sherlock keeps his hand steady on the back of John’s neck.  

“Just breathe,” Sherlock reminds him.

After a few long moments, John is able to get his breathing back under control and the wretching stops.

Sherlock pulls back his hand but John keeps his head between his knees.

“John, I -” Sherlock begins.

“Do not speak,” John tells him.  “Just please, do not speak.  There is nothing, Sherlock - not one bloody word you could possibly say to me.”

Sherlock rocks back on his heels and slowly comes to a stand, moving back and giving John some space. John continues to breathe deeply.  

Sherlock steps toward the door and John’s hand snakes quickly around his ankle, forcing him to stop.

“You will not do this without me,” John tells him, taking a deep breath and looking up.

Sherlock frowns but then nods his head.

“I will just ask Mary to step back in,” he suggests.

“Give me a moment,” John says as he braces his hand against the wall and tries to haul himself back up to a stand.

Sherlock moves to help him.

“Don’t touch me!” John spits.  “Don’t you touch me.”

Sherlock shrinks back and waits for John to unfold back to a standing position.

Leaning his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes for a long moment, John takes another deep breath and lowers his chin to look directly at Sherlock.  He nods and Sherlock sticks his head out of the doorway to locate Mary.

 

OOooOO

 

It was Christmas time when John and Mary finally made amends after the months of silence which came once he found out that she had been the one to shoot Sherlock. It was the same Christmas that Sherlock killed Magnussen so that his friend, John, would be able to have a normal life with Mary and their baby.

Sherlock never liked to admit to a miscalculation, but killing Magnussen had been a rash decision based almost solely on sentiment and the strength of the vow he made at John and Mary’s wedding.  He understood the reasons why Mycroft had arranged for him to return to Eastern Europe, especially if there was reason to believe that Moriarty was back in the game.  Sherlock knew that Mycroft would help him get underground rather than die there, but he also knew that meant he would not be able to return to London.  He would need to continue his hunt for Moriarty’s thread elsewhere.

But the largest miscalculation by far had been Mycroft’s - in assuming that Moriarty would not show himself directly. Moriarty’s little media blitz however, had changed that.  In just under thirty seconds, he had managed to cause mass panic throughout the Commonwealth.

Mycroft recalled Sherlock’s plane and sent him by car to Mycroft’s house rather than to Baker Street.  Mycroft sent John and Mary off to their own home, with promises to contact them with any new developments.  He called the Prime Minister and headed out to Downing Street to begin to discuss strategy.

 

~~

 

Sherlock had just entered the bedroom that would be his at Mycroft’s estate when his text alert sighed loudly.

\- _You have seen?_

\- _Yes. SH_

\- _Mary is compromised._

- _How? SH_

\- _I can explain. Let’s have dinner._

Sherlock did not reply to this final text.  Instead he waited, pacing across the span of the bedroom suite.  After five minutes, his mobile rang and he picked it up immediately.

“Explain,” Sherlock demanded.

“Well, I found Mary darling though her association with our mutual friend, Mr. Moriarty.”

Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He now had confirmation that the conversation he recalled between Mary and Magnussen had a real basis in fact.

“If you have crossed me -” he began angrily.

“There, there, Sherlock,” replied a placating female voice. “Would I do such a thing?  I only contacted you because I fear our poor Mary may soon be suffering from what is commonly called ‘a conflict of interest’.”

“You knew she was at the pool,” Sherlock stated.

There was a sultry laugh at the other end of the line.

“The good news is, she had her sights on you, my dear, and not on your lovely partner. That must count for something.”

Sherlock disconnected the line and sank onto the bed, tossing the mobile to the side and running his hands angrily through his hair. He stood up quickly and began pacing.

Before too long, his mobile chirped a text alert from John.  He stood over the bed and looked down at the phone for a long time.  Finally, he scooped it off the bed and hit the button to read the message.

\- _Sherlock, you ok?_

Sherlock did not respond.  He stared down at the text and did not move.

\- _Mrs. H contacted me. She is frantic._

Sherlock sank back onto the bed cradling the mobile in his hands.  Finally, he typed out a quick message.

\- _Nothing to be done. How is Mary? SH_

\- _Seems anxious, but aren’t we all?_

Sherlock nodded.  John did not seem to feel anything was out of the ordinary as far as his wife was concerned.  That was good.  It would give Sherlock a little time to decide whether or not to confront Mary about her possible shifting loyalties.

The mobile rang in Sherlock’s hand.  He frowned as he answered it, standing once more to resume his pacing.

“Mycroft.”

“Hello brother. I trust you are finding your accommodations suitable,” Mycroft remarked.

Sherlock drew out a long suffering sigh.

“What, pray tell, do you want now?” Sherlock asked.

“We need to talk about Mary,” Mycroft responded.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched his nose.

“Whatever for?” he asked feigning confusion.

Mycroft did not reply immediately.  

He drew out the silence and then said softly, “I have reason to believe that she has had specialized training in firearms and code-breaking... as I had mentioned previously.”

“I won’t do this by phone, Mycroft,” Sherlock answered.

“The car is waiting.”

“I’m not going out now,” Sherlock responded petulantly.

Mycroft frowned into the phone.

“Very well, brother dear.  I will see you at home. Do wait for me in the study, I shan’t be long.”

Sherlock chucked the mobile back onto the bed and stalked down the stairs to wait for his brother’s return.

 

~~

 

Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, his elbows resting on a stack of file folders, fingers steepled at his chin.

“Let me make sure I understand.  You thought this would all just blow over?” he asked the retreating figure of Sherlock Holmes who was pacing away from the desk.

Sherlock turned with precision.

“I thought it didn’t matter in the end,” he bit out.

Mycroft shook his head.

“Tell me again why you felt the need to keep this information from me?” Mycroft asked.

“If your people are too stupid to figure these things out, Mycroft, that is hardly my fault,” Sherlock responded, pivoting directly in front of the desk.

Mycroft blew out a long breath.

Neither man spoke.

“Mary will need protection,” Sherlock said finally.

Mycroft lowered his arms slowly and took the top file folder off of the pile and handed it to Sherlock.

“I trust this will be sufficient,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock took the folder and flipping it open, settled in the seat opposite the desk.  He read quickly.

“I wouldn’t expect John to have any difficulty with these arrangements,” Sherlock stated.

“Will he go?” Mycroft asked pointedly.

Sherlock brought his gaze up to Mycroft.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Mycroft asked.  “What you did? How you orchestrated this whole thing with Mary…”

Sherlock frowned, knitting his eyebrows together.

Mycroft shook his head again and pushed back from the desk.  He walked over to the sidebar and pour himself a glass of whiskey, neat, and one on the rocks which he turned and handed to Sherlock .

“I just don’t understand this, little brother,” Mycroft began gently.

Sherlock bolted from the chair, the ice rattling against the thick crystal of the glass, and went around Mycroft’s desk to stand looking out the tall windows.

“Surely, after returning from your time away, it has been made clear to you the great need that our Dr. Watson has for the clear, unadulterated truth.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“Has Mary told him?”

“She suspects it was I who hired her” Sherlock confessed, “but as we have never discussed it directly, I don’t expect she has said anything to John.  As it happens, she may have even more to lose than I do.”

“And how will you resolve this?” Mycroft questioned, leaning back against the sidebar, crossing his legs at the ankle.

“I had considered confronting Mary directly, but I think at this point it is better that I wait for her to come to me,” Sherlock replied.

“Even in her condition?”

“Especially in her condition.”

Mycroft took a drink of his whiskey, worrying his lower lip with the edge of his glass.

“My dear boy,” he said, lowering the glass, “when will you ever learn?”

Sherlock slammed his whiskey down on the desk, slopping a bit of it over the side onto the polished wood and marched past Mycroft out of the study, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft watched him go and then sent a text of his own.

-  _Greg, we need to talk. A car will pick you up in 30 minutes. MH_

 

 


	6. The Blueprint

Mary reenters the room and crosses to stand in the center of it.  She turns around and pins her gaze on Sherlock.

“Are we about done with the dramatics?” she asks.

Sherlock turns slowly to look at her, placing himself between her and John.

“I will answer every question that you have,” Sherlock tells her, “and then you will listen to what I have to say. No guns, no theatrics.”

Mary does not respond.  Her gun remains on the floor where she had previously set it.  She looks from the gun to Sherlock and places a protective hand over her belly.

“Every moment you remain alive puts this baby of John’s in danger,” Mary says in a low tone.

John grips Sherlock’s arm forcefully and heaves him out of the way.  He advances on Mary who shrinks from him and he suddenly freezes before he reaches her.

“You’re afraid,” John remarks, shaking his head. “Afraid of me?”

He notes her heavy breathing and the fact that her hand is shaking as she lifts it to rub the back of her neck.

“No, not you” Mary begins, gesturing to her stomach. “Well, you are difficult when you are angry.  I don’t like that.  When you’re angry… I’ve never had to worry before. I just don’t know -”

“This isn’t just about you any more, is it Mary?” Sherlock asks, meeting her eyes over John’s shoulders.

“I - I’m not - my work is not conducive to having babies,” she says in a huff.

John reaches out to her gently.  As much as he would like to strangle her with his bare hands, he knows that this situation is bigger than his feelings toward her, toward Sherlock.  He hesitates as his hand ghosts over her upper arm.

Mary flinches, but does not move.  She allows John to touch her arm, resting his hand on her shoulder.  He steps toward her and she lowers her gaze, beginning to sob.

“I - I don’t know what is wrong with me,” she chokes out between sobs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

John handles her gently and takes her into his arms.

“It’s hormones, Mary,” he tells her.  “You feel like you are out of control because of these pregnancy hormones.”

She takes a ragged breath.

“I hate it!” she exclaims, pounding her fist on his chest.  “I. Hate. This!”

John does not reply and he does not stop her flailing.  He just continues to hold her close.

“I can’t think and I can’t plan and I just - I just don’t know what is best to do,” she stutters out.

John glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who has remained across the room and who is looking at them silently.

“Mary,” Sherlock says, taking a few steps toward where she is huddled against John.  “I agreed to come here with you -”

“Because I had a gun trained on you and God knows, you aren’t stupid, Sherlock.”  She chokes on the last word.

He shakes his head.

“Please, as if that gun ever mattered,” he breathed.

John feels Mary tense.

“Stop!” John exclaims, holding Mary away from him and looking from her to Sherlock.  “Just stop this the both of you.”

“I came here, Mary, to make you a deal,” Sherlock tells her.

Mary looks from John to Sherlock.  Her brows furrow and she quirks her head to the side.

“Deal?” she asks.

“Yes, a deal,” Sherlock tells her, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking up on the balls of his feet.

The room is completely silent.

John is looking daggers at Sherlock, but Sherlock holds his ground.

Mary can’t see this exchange between them. She gestures between herself and John and then to Sherlock.

“After all this,” she says softly, still sniffing, “you want to make me a deal?”

 

OOooOO

 

The immaculate black car drove Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade down a long gravel drive, eventually wending it’s way to a large estate house.  The front entry was lit and it looked to Lestrade to be quite a rather traditional English nobleman’s estate.  He had never been here before and he quickly wiped sweaty palms down the front of his crumpled trousers.

The driver opened the door for him and Lestrade climbed gingerly out of the car, hand absently smoothing down the hair at the back of his neck.  Looking up the steps, he saw a woman he recognized as Mycroft’s assistant waiting for him just outside the door.

Lestrade climbed the few stone steps and the woman held out an elegant hand to him.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

She shook his hand firmly. He fervently hoped his was no longer sweaty.

“Thank you so much for coming out so late in the evening. I am Mr. Holmes’ assistant.”

He noticed that she did not give her name.  The woman led Lestrade through the front door and waited until he had shrugged out of his overcoat.  He withered a bit under her scrutiny.  His trousers were rumpled, his shirt wrinkled and his tie askew. He had not slept in over a day as he and Sherlock had a case on.  He frowned in her direction.  This interruption was not a welcome one and he refused to apologize for the state of his two-day old clothing.

Anthea nodded her head briskly, leaned around the corner into what seemed to be a study, and returning to face him, she handed him a pressed, navy jacket.

“Perhaps you need the loo, Detective Inspector?” she asked kindly, handing him the jacket and waving to indicate a door on the opposite side of the study. “I know it has been a long few days for you. Mr. Holmes is very appreciative of your time.”

Lestrade took the coat automatically and looked puzzled for a moment.  He looked at it and when he realized what it was, he looked down at his own rumpled appearance.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, sighing.  “Yes, the loo.  The loo would be great. Quite a long drive, that.”

Anthea nodded her head as the Detective Inspector walked quickly across the room.

After a few moments, the door to the loo cracked open and DI Lestrade side-stepped out.

He had straightened his tie and put on the jacket.  It hid the worst of the wrinkles in his shirt and trousers. He absently rubbed his hands down the front of it. It was elegant, unlike any article of clothing he even owned and he felt just a bit ridiculous as he walked back through the study.

“Mr. Holmes is waiting for you in the drawing room.  He does realize this is a bad time, Inspector,” Anthea said, leading him down the long panelled hall and stopping before a large oak archway.

Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped through the archway and tried not to look as overwhelmed as he felt.  Mycroft Holmes stood gracefully from where he sat in a leather wingback chair before a roaring fire.  He quickly placed his glass of cognac on the side table and stepped forward offering his hand.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said in greeting, “Thank you so much for agreeing to come.”

Lestrade held back a laugh at this as the men shook hands and Mycroft looked him over casually before breaking his grip and gesturing to the seat next to him.

“Can I get you something?  Whiskey? Mineral water?” Mycroft asked, turning in the direction of the sidebar.

Lestrade rocked up to the balls of his feet.

“No, thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he replied.  “I am actually on a case at the moment and the timing of this -”

“Mycroft, please,” Mycroft said smoothly, returning to face him.  “After all that has gone on with you and Sherlock, I feel as if I have known you for years. Certainly we are colleagues by now.”

Lestrade looked at him quizzically. He had only met the elder Holmes twice before - once when he had agreed to allow Sherlock on cases and the other time when Sherlock escaped from hospital after being shot in Magnussen’s office building and he was helping Mycroft to locate him.

“But please, do sit,” Mycroft commanded, returning to his own chair.  “I will not take up much of your time and you’re hovering over me will not make me speak any faster.”

Lestrade sighed and dropped heavily into the seat opposite.

“Honestly, I’m just afraid I won’t get back up,” Lestrade confessed, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”  

He rubbed a tired hand over his face.

Mycroft paused for a moment, studying the DI carefully.  He waited until Lestrade turned his attention back to Mycroft.

“I owe you a tremendously large debt of gratitude,” Mycroft told him.

Lestrade scoffed.

“Seriously, Detective Inspector,” he pressed.

Lestrade waved him off.

“I am well aware that you play a very large part in the quest to keep my brother clean.”

“Really, Mycroft,” Lestrade said finally, “it’s not a selfless gesture.  I need Sherlock and his work to help me get the job done.”

Mycroft nodded.

“And I would never want to do anything to disturb that happy balance that exists between the two of you,” he continued.

Lestrade looked at him. He was beginning to get uncomfortable.

“I do however, need to ask you for a favor.”

Lestrade drew down his brows and leaned forward in his seat.  Mycroft Holmes would never need to ask someone for a favor.  

“What is this about, Mycroft?” Lestrade asked.

“It is actually about our dear Dr. Watson and his very pregnant wife, Mary.”

Lestrade leaned back in his seat.  He had not heard the entire story of what happened with Sherlock, John and Magnussen, but he knew that John’s wife had been heavily involved.

“I need to set up an extraction,” Mycroft explained.  “And I need back up from your people.”

Lestrade nodded his head.

“I can assign Donovan,” he replied. “She might not be on the best of terms with Sherlock but I trust her with my life. When push comes to shove she does her job and she’s the best I’ve got.”

Mycroft shook his head quickly.

“Too high profile, she will be easily recognized,” he responded.

Lestrade frowned.

“Mycroft, what else can I do?,” he began. “Very few people would I trust to be involved with an operation that has to do with Sherlock... or our friends.”

Mycroft nodded, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest at the implication that these were his friends as well.

“I understand, Greg,” he responded quietly.  “I just need you to give me the names of your people and I will handle vetting them.”

“I don’t have to remind you that Moriarty had a sniper right in my own division,” Lestrade told him. “There are few there I actually trust.”

Mycroft shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I promise you, Greg, I will handle the details. I brought you in because I trust your judgement and your instinct. I am only asking you for a few names. I will deal with the rest.”

 

~~

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade provided Mycroft Holmes with three names - two men and one woman.  After another week, Mycroft was able to put the final pieces in place for the plan that he was due to present to Sherlock.

\- _Operation Moses is ready for your review. I am sending a car in 20. - MH_

\- _In the middle of a case - SH_

\- _Not an option - MH_

There was no response to his text and forty minutes later, Sherlock strode through the doors of the Diogenes Club huffing loudly and muttering as he made his way through the parlor and down the hallway to the talking room. The snapping of newspapers and the sound of general unease followed him down.

“Must you be so difficult?” Mycroft asked, addressing his brother once he entered the room.

He offered Sherlock a steaming cup of tea from the trolley.

Sherlock gazed at him impassively and did not move to take the tea.

Mycroft set the cup back on the trolley and walked around to meet his brother.

“As if they would throw you out of this fine establishment,” Sherlock said, responding to the earlier question.

Mycroft handed him a file folder, leaning back against the desk and Sherlock perched on the edge of a chair flipping through the pages quickly.

He nodded.

“Will John go?” Mycroft asked again.

Sherlock did not respond.

Mycroft pulled the sigh of the long-suffering.

“I am taking this option directly to Mary,” Sherlock told him defiantly, straightening his back and looking at Mycroft, his eyes flashing.

Mycroft shook his head and straightened in front of him.

“Why, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, cocking his head and regarding his younger brother with something akin to sadness.  “Why haven't you told John the truth?”

Sherlock stood up quickly, thrusting the file back at Mycroft.

“These arrangements look just fine,” he bit out.  “I will speak to Mary this week and I will get back to you once I have her consent.”

Sherlock whirled away, heading toward the door.

“If you and Mary plan this without John’s knowledge,” Mycroft began, causing Sherlock to stop with one hand on the door frame.

“You will both lose the only thing that has ever mattered to either one of you.”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders against the words but did not turn around.  After a moment’s pause, he lowered his hand from the doorframe and stepped through silently.

Mycroft watched him leave, tapping his pointer finger against his lower lip as he continued to shake his head.


	7. Operation Moses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely to those of you following this story! I had a heck of a month IRL and was unable to post for so long. I fervently hope that it is all behind me now and this story will be updated on a regular schedule. I hope to have the whole thing up within the next month!
> 
> We are halfway home and I'm already in the middle of writing a sequel.
> 
> Many apologies again...

Mary breaks away from John and turns fully to Sherlock.

John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock holds up his hand. John snaps his jaw together painfully.

“You know that if I don’t kill you, Moriarty will come after me and this baby.” Mary does not ask this as a question.

Sherlock nods his head.

“I know that you were one of the assassins at the pool tasked with the order to kill me,” Sherlock tells her.

John sucks in a steadying breath.

Sherlock glances in his direction and sees John is still standing so he continues.

“I believe that now that the world knows that I am back, Moriarty continues to expect you to fulfill your commitment.”

Mary is nodding her head.

“He’s been in touch. But he’s wrong, Sherlock. He’s absolutely wrong!” she says quickly, wringing her hands unconsciously. “He paid me to do a job at the pool. That event is over. Moriarty called us off. Contract fulfilled. The end.”

Sherlock knows that John has begun to sway a little.

“John, sit,” he commands, still looking at Mary.

Behind him, John sinks to the floor slowly.

“As you insist on being here -” Sherlock begins, fixing his eyes on John.

“Shut it, Sherlock,” John says in a tired voice, not returning the gaze. “Just get on with this.”

There is a long pause. Sherlock turns back to Mary. Their eyes meet and their mutual concern telepaths from one to the other: is it possible to gain forgiveness from John Watson?

“How long did you know?” 

Mary asks Sherlock this question aloud instead.

“The Woman - Irene - let me know you were compromised when Moriarty’s message blanketed all of England.”

Mary nods.

“I went to Mycroft -”

John barks a laugh behind him.

“I went to Mycroft,” Sherlock says again. “He has put together a plan he feels will keep you and the baby safe. I intended to approach you with the plan; it seems you got to me first.”

Mary is silent.

“It will work, Mary,” Sherlock says fervently. “It’s from Mycroft - this is what he does. It’s the only real reason to keep him around.”

Mary shivers.

“Nothing works against Moriarty, Sherlock. Surely you know that by now.”

“There are no other options,” Sherlock tells her hurriedly. “I know, I have spent hours and hours… Hours and hours, Mary.”

“Why do this?” Mary asks finally.

Sherlock does not respond. He looks from Mary to John who is still sitting on the floor looking at him expectantly.

“Because John loves you. Because most of this is my fault. Because what isn’t my fault is yours.”

John begins to laugh at this.

“Christ, look at the two of you,” John breathes.

“And what would you have us do, John?” Mary snaps.

“Stop meddling in my life! The both of you,” John responds bitterly. “But I guess it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?”

“Operation Moses,” Sherlock interrupts, returning their attention to him. “We have outfitted a safe house. It’s on the coast, in Brighton. We have a means to get the three of you out of town and safe. After the baby is born, you will have -” 

Here Sherlock pauses.

“You and John - will have to decide what happens after that. Mycroft will spare no expense to continue your protection. It is my fervent hope that Moriarty will be out of the picture by that time. Mycroft and I will -”

“So we go and hide and you once again go running after Moriarty by yourself?” John questions, pulling his knees to his chest.

“What are the other options, John?” Sherlock asks.

“There better be something Sherlock, because that just isn’t going to happen,” John enunciates clearly.

A heavy silence rests over the room and John breathes out slowly, bowing his head to his knees.

Mary breaks the silence after a short time.

“So you didn’t know then?” she asks the question again.

Sherlock and John both look at her.

“You didn’t know when you hired me - or rather, had me hired - that I was the assassin at the pool?” she asks softly.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“I contacted Adler and let her know I needed the best. She made all the connections,” he explains.

“But she knew,” John said quietly. “Irene Adler knew the whole story and she is the one who worked all of this out for you. _She_ set you up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked to a spot over John’s head.

“I acknowledge I may have been over-eager to trust her judgement,” he replies, after a long moment. 

No one speaks.

“Why, when you returned did you not say _something_ ," Mary presses.

“I thought about it, many times,” Sherlock replies. “For God’s sake Mary, I interrupted John’s proposal dinner. Do you think for one moment it ever occurred to me that I needed to worry about how seriously things were going to develop between you and John?”

Sherlock flinches slightly as the words leave his mouth, thinking about how they must sound to John.

“Why didn’t you just leave when I returned?” he accuses in turn. “It’s not as if you ever intended to tell John the truth either.”

“The real question,” John begins, after clearing his throat, “is why the two of you didn’t leave me the hell alone in the first place?”

There is no heat behind the question, but John feels it must be pointed out again.

“Neither one of you trusts me to make my own decisions. I’m not a pawn in your game Sherlock, and I’m not a toddler to be watched over.”

This last he waves at Mary.

“I am a doctor and I am a soldier. Surely after the incident at the pool, you both should have known better. And don’t bother apologizing - either of you. This has gone way past that point. It was past that point when you turned up, Sherlock, right in the middle of my proposal dinner and neither one of you thought I was important enough to hear the truth. My entire future was built on a lie. A lie that the two of you concocted together.” 

John’s eyes bore straight into Sherlock’s.

 _If you and Mary plan this without John’s knowledge_ \- It was Mycroft’s voice in his head - _You will both lose the only thing that has ever mattered to either one of you._

“Mary, will you take the deal?” Sherlock asks, without looking away.

The question ignites something in John and he leaps up, coming to crowd into Sherlock’s space.

“Yes Sherlock, yes - she will take the deal,” John hisses. “And furthermore, Mary will go to Brighton, she’ll have the baby and she’ll do whatever the hell it is that she wants to do after that happens. And I will stay here - with you - and we will work together to finish this thing once and for all.”

No one responds.

“And I will make arrangements for the baby,” John says, stepping back from Sherlock and pointing at Mary. He looks from one to the other. “And neither one of you will dare to stop me.”

Mary begins to shake at this last bit.

“If I stay -” she begins in a low whisper.

“If you stay, that’s your business, but you will be no where near my daughter,” John promises her.

She nods her head, covering her mouth with her hand. Tears begin to streak down her cheeks and she cries silently.

“She is your baby’s mother,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Biologically,” John tells him, keeping his eyes on Mary. “No one, and I mean no one, gets to my daughter, without going through me.”

“But who John?” Sherlock tries to reason with him. “Who do you have that will be able to watch over the baby while you and I are focused on Moriarty.”

“You would rather I leave my daughter with - with this!?” he waves at Mary disgustedly. “As if I could trust that she would still be there with my baby when we were finished!” 

John’s voice breaks on this last part and Mary sobs openly.

John shakes himself. “You know what, it doesn’t matter now. What happens when this baby is born is not of immediate concern. What does matter now is that we will follow Mycroft’s plan and we will do so immediately.”

John runs his hand through his hair and begins to pace.

“Mary, we need to get you back to the flat and packed up,” John begins in his Captain Watson voice.

“There is a car available, I just need to call,” Sherlock tells him quietly. “Everything Mary needs will be provided to her.”

John nods his head at this and continues pacing.

“Talk to me about the rest of this plan,” he commands.

“Mycroft has a driver and one body guard in the car,” Sherlock explains. “Mary will get the car here and it will rendezvous with an unmarked police car with two NSY officers -”

“Who are they? These people?” John interrupts. “Mycroft’s men and the coppers?”

“Mycroft has two MI6 agents that have done freelance work with him-”

At the word freelance, John flinches and glances at Mary. She does not meet his gaze.

“- for twenty years,” Sherlock continues, “and he trusts them implicitly.”

“And have they been recently vetted again?” John asks, fixing Sherlock with a steady gaze. “You know, for new pressure points?”

“I will confirm with Mycroft,” Sherlock promises, slipping his phone from his pocket. He holds it up and waves it a little, seemingly to ask John’s permission.

John nods and Sherlock types a quick note.

\- Were your agents checked for new pressure points? John wants this done. - SH

“If not, I want new people,” John demands.

“I understand,” Sherlock answers.

“And the coppers?”

“Mycroft worked with Lestrade to get the agents from NSY,” Sherlock explains.

“And you told me there was a sniper in Greg’s own division,” John snaps.

“Yes John,” Sherlock says, trying to keep the sigh out of his voice.

John regards him coldly.

Sherlock takes a deep breath tamping down on his impatience and then continues, “Lestrade submit a list of names to Mycroft. Those people were then vetted. Mycroft chose the two officers personally with Anthea’s input.”

Sherlock’s mobile buzzes with an answering text which he reads aloud to John.

\- Files reviewed just yesterday. Also spoke to DI; reviewed those files as well. -MH

John nods.

“The house in Brighton is completely self contained. Mary’s own doctor will be moving into one wing. The world believes that Dr. Jamison is going on sabbatical to study with a doctor in America. The house is located in a gated community which will be patrolled by Mycroft’s people and the house itself will have an additional checkpoint at the driveway, also staffed by those same MI6 agents. The shoreline will be patrolled as well. Anthea’s sister has been assigned to Mary. She will handle any and all chores that go into running a house. Additionally there will be a butler, cook and maid, all of whom are trained in the use of small weapons and martial arts. The staff will come after everyone is settled.”

Sherlock stops speaking. 

“I want in on the vetting process,” John tells him.

“Of course. I will let Mycroft know,” Sherlock agrees.

John rubs his hand over his stubble and looks from Sherlock to Mary.

“Does this sounds amenable to you?” he asks her.

Mary looks up at John and nods her head but keeps silent.

“I appreciate Mycroft’s need to be thorough in all things. For once it seems more of an asset than a bother,” John tells Sherlock. “Tell him, would you?”

“I’m sure you can tell him yourself,” Sherlock responds.

John waves him off.

“When can we get this done then?” John asks coolly.

“Shall I call right now?” Sherlock asks.

John looks from Sherlock to Mary. Sherlock also looks to Mary.

“Fine, fine,” she says stiffly, “call. Call right now.”


	8. Moving Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll stand here if anyone wants to throw tomatoes....
> 
> I must be a creative type - can't get anywhere on time ever and can't get anything done unless I've got a deadline looming over my head.
> 
> Many thanks and I hope that in the end you'll think it's all worth it.

“Perhaps I should ride with Mary,” John suggests as Sherlock’s finger hovers over the send button.

“That would be up to you, John,” Sherlock tells him, lowering the mobile. “It will be no trouble to accommodate you.”

“Well, that’s lovely, Sherlock,” John says mockingly. “I am the baby’s father after all.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath but remains silent. He waits for John to indicate that he is finished here.

“Is there anything else?” John asks, spreading his arms wide to indicate the both of them.

“Yes,” Mary tells him, looking up with a steeled expression on her face. She drags the back of her hand across her cheek, wiping off the last of the tears.

“I will fight you for this baby if you make me.”

John spins on his heel and advances toward Mary.

“The bloody hell you will!” he yells.

Sherlock looks angrily at Mary.

Mary draws herself up to her full height and does not back down from John crowding into her space.

“Explain to me then,” Mary tells him coolly. “Sherlock gets a free pass in the lying department, but if I decide to apologize and stay, you will take my baby away from me?”

John points his finger in Mary’s face. 

“I could kill you right now,” he threatens. “The baby is already thirty-five weeks and developing normally. I wouldn’t expect complications.”

Sherlock grabs John by the arm and hauls him away from Mary.

“John! What the bloody hell?!” Sherlock demands, spinning John to face him, his hands on both of John’s biceps. 

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek to stop from shaking John outright. He knows it would be a draw if they were to fight hand to hand.

Mary is shivering, but she stands her ground.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” she says in a low voice, “I understand. It’s always you, you know.”

Sherlock gazes over to Mary, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Always you, that John will make excuses for... Always you, who will betray and betray him and yet still be forgiven… Always you, who can pretend to be dead and be welcomed with open arms,” Mary explains.

“Sherlock is not my wife,” John spits at her, as Sherlock continues to restrain him. “Since the day I met him, Sherlock has been a self-absorbed, egotistical, maniac of a man. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep, he frankly doesn’t care about anyone or anything except himself. Even jumping off of that building - which was to protect us, his friends -” John sneers the word, “was really second only to proving that he could jump and live because after all...there is nothing Sherlock loves better than the work and showing the world how very, very clever he truly is.” 

Sherlock looks as if he had been slapped and his grip on John has loosened.

“Is that what you really think, John?” he asks with wide eyes.

John presses the moment and breaks himself out of Sherlock’s grip. He goes quickly to stand on the other side of the empty room. He doesn’t trust himself to be anywhere near either of them right now.

“This I have known since the day that I met Sherlock, Mary,” John says, ignoring Sherlock’s question. “But you...Now, there’s a story.”

John paces a bit and then continues, “You come into my life and you lie to me from the very moment I even meet you - standing on the street corner before Sarah’s clinic. Are you even a real nurse?”

Mary nods her head defiantly.

“You take money from this - this git - to protect me,” John says darkly. “You find yourself in a tight spot with Magnussen so you turn around and shoot Sherlock - the very maniac who is paying your bills - and then you want me to pretend that in the middle of all of that, you somehow fell in love with me and now that you are pregnant, you want to have a life of domestic bliss and stick around to raise our daughter?”

Mary lets these words roll off of her. She opens her mouth to speak, but thinks better of it and closes it again. She blinks wide eyes at John and puts a protective hand over her belly.

“She’s kicking,” Mary says softly, closing her eyes.

No one moves for a long moment.

“Make the call,” John tells Sherlock flatly as he squares his shoulders and turns to march from the room.

Sherlock withdraws his mobile, turning away from John and Mary.

“I never lied about loving you, John,” Mary tells him as he goes.

“You’re on your own,” John says over his shoulder. “I’m not coming with you.”

“It’s time,” Sherlock says quietly and then pulls the phone away from his ear.

~~

John walks out of the room, down the battered staircase and smashes loudly out the back door. He walks across old broken pavement until he is standing on the street corner a few doors down from the abandoned house. Traffic is light and John glances at his watch: just about midnight. He had been in and around the area for the better part of four hours and he realizes he is bone tired. He pushes his hands down into his pockets and looks both ways down the narrow road. In the distance, coming from the right, he can see the headlights of a long, black car driving in his direction. Streetlamps glint off the shiny black hood and remind John of a carnival ride. He thinks for a moment about this baby - his daughter. He cringes and shakes his head. As the car approaches, he backs away from the street corner and into the shadows of another large and dilapidated, old house. This one has a light shining in a second-story window. He watches the car - the one he knows to be carrying Mycroft’s men - turn slowly into the alleyway next to the abandoned house. It disappears around the corner.

John continues to ignore the three text messages that he had received since leaving. Taking a deep breath, he pushes a little farther back into the shadows as he sees the car poking its nose back onto the street. As the car pulls out, Sherlock steps out onto the pavement, a sweeping look in both directions. John pushes himself back until he is leaning against the concrete foundation of the large house. He watches Sherlock and he waits. After a moment, Sherlock turns his gaze to the exact spot where John is standing. John sucks in a breath. He knows there is no way that Sherlock actually sees him. It reminds him of hiding in plain sight in Afghanistan and he shivers. After a moment, Sherlock turns in the opposite direction and begins to walk briskly down the street.

John pulls his mobile out, continuing to ignore the three messages he knew were from Sherlock. Instead, he hits 3 on his speed dial.

“Lestrade.”

“Greg, I need you to send a car.” John pulls a bone tired sigh. “Please. I need you to pick me up.”

“John? Jesus, you sound terrible. Are you okay?” Greg asks concerned. “Where are you?”

John gives him the address.

“What the hell are you doing there? “ Greg asks.

John doesn’t reply.

“I’ll leave right now,” Greg tells him.

“Come alone,” John says.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Greg asks again. “Where’s Sherlock? Where’s Mary?”

“I just need you to get here,” John replies.

He can hear from the change in Greg’s breathing that he is on the move.

“Alright mate, I’m coming,” Greg tells him. “Just hold on.”

John hits the end button without even saying goodbye.

~~

Greg pulls his unmarked car up to the kerb and John slides into the front seat. Greg watches John settle himself but neither man speaks. John covers his face with his hands and tips his head back to rest on the backrest of the seat. Greg pulls the car slowly away from the kerb.

“Anywhere special, mate?” Greg asks quietly.

“How about your place?” John suggests.

“My place?” Greg asks in surprise.

“I’m not going home and I’m not going to Baker Street. If there is somewhere else you prefer, that’s fine with me,” John tells him.

Greg nods and begins driving in the direction of his own flat.

“Bad night?” he asks finally.

“Leave it, Greg. I know that you were in on the deal with the NSY folks per Mycroft’s request. I’m guessing you already know what is going on.”

Greg nods his head.

“I didn’t want to presume -” he begins.

“If I killed them both, would you let me walk away?” John asks, barking a laugh. “I’d be doing the world a favor.”

Greg does not reply.

John huffs out a breath.

“Anything I can do?” Greg asks.

“We could stop for a pint,” John suggests. 

“I’ve got beer at the flat,” Greg tells him.

“Brilliant.”

The two drive in silence for a short while. John leans his head back and shuts his eyes. He is thinking about Mary’s accusations.

He takes a deep breath.

“Greg, do you think that I’m too easy on Sherlock?” John asks in the otherwise silent car.

“Too easy? I’m not sure I understand what you mean, mate,” Greg replies, turning the car into a short alleyway to park behind the flat.

John looks around, as the car comes to a stop.

“Oh nothing,” he says, “nevermind.”

Greg leads John up the stairs and into his small flat. He’s been in the same place for the past two years - since his marriage went south. He keeps telling himself that it’s temporary, but he should just acknowledge that he doesn’t really care where he lives any more. He spends such little time at home, what does it matter?

John folds himself onto the couch and Greg pulls two beers out from his barely stocked refrigerator. He opens them both and walking over to the couch, hands one to John.

“Cheers,” John says bitterly, offering his bottle for a toast.

Glass clinks on glass and John takes a long draw of his beer. His mobile chirps a text message but he doesn’t move to get it out of his pocket. Greg settles into the only other chair at the small table and he looks over at John.

“How long to Brighton?” John asks.

“Probably an hour and a half,” Greg replies. “Maybe a little less at this time of night.”

John looks at his watch: another hour to go.

“How long ago did you and Mycroft set up this plan?” John asks him, stretching his legs out in front of him and absently rubbing his right one.

Greg’s mobile rings loudly causing both men to jump.

“Sorry,” Greg breathes, snatching his jacket off of the back of the chair he is sitting on and fishing the phone out of its pocket. He flips it over in his hand.

“Ah, Mycroft,” he says, meeting John’s questioning gaze.

“Didn’t know you were on a first name basis,” John mutters darkly.

Greg puts the mobile to his ear.

“Hello Mycroft,” he says.

John hears the smooth baritone of the elderly Holmes brother but he can’t make out the words.

“Yes actually, John is here,” Greg replies.

John scowls.

“I don’t expect he will be interested, but I’ll ask,” Greg says taking the phone away from his ear, and turning to John, “Mycroft would like to send a car. He wants you to go to the estate. You’ll be able to track the progress of Mary’s car from there.”

“Gosh Mycroft, you’re really giving me an option this time? That’s new. I’m having a fine time here with my friend Greg, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll pass,” John responds loudly, putting an accent on the word friend.

“What did I tell you?” Greg asks, putting the mobile back up to his ear.

John can hear Mycroft responding.

“I’ll tell him,” Greg says, “Good night, Mycroft.”

Greg hits the end button and slides the phone across the small table.

“Mycroft wants you to know the rendezvous with the NSY car has been completed and they expect to arrive in Brighton within the hour,” he tells John.

John’s mobile chirps another text alert and he digs it out of his pocket and throws it across the room.

“I’ll just tell Sherlock you’re here?” Greg asks, sliding his mobile back across the table.

“To hell with Sherlock!” John exclaims heatedly.

“Or we won’t and he’ll just show up.”

John levels his gaze at Lestrade.

“Tell him to leave me the hell alone,” John says. “As if the git ever actually listens.”


	9. Lowlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since no one has come after me with pitchforks, I just couldn't leave you good folks hanging so I put up both chapters today.
> 
> Christmas in July!

John begins pacing about forty minutes later than the expected arrival time. Greg sits in the small chair still at the table and watches him warily. Neither man speaks and since Greg has already suggested calling Mycroft twice and Sherlock once, he thinks better of making any more small talk so he keeps his mouth shut.

After another ten minutes, John whirls on Greg.

“Did you lot really bloody think that you could put together a plan that could outsmart Moriarty?!” John yells.

Greg shifts in his seat.

“If anyone could do it, mate, you know Mycroft could,” Greg tells him.

John folds himself back onto the couch and leans with his head in his hands.

“Jesus, Greg, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault,” John tells him, running his hand through his hair. 

“I could take you to -” Greg begins, one last time.

“I’m staying here,” John snaps.

They sit silently. John checks his watch every two or three minutes. When his watch reads 3:10 am, John stands up again.

Almost immediately, there is a quick knock on the door. Greg and John both turn in that direction. John is flexing both hands by his side. Greg glances to his friend who is beginning to breath heavily.

“It’s open,” Greg says using his official DI Lestrade voice as he begins to stand.

After a moment that seems like forever, he and John hear the click of the door. Then it is opening and Sherlock is stepping in. Suddenly, it is as if everything speeds up. DI Greg Lestrade is moving, trying to grab John who is lunging at Sherlock. John slips past Greg, but Sherlock blocks his momentum and grabbing John by the wrist, he twists his arm until John’s front is flush against the wall.

A litany of profanity spills off of John’s lips as he struggles, but Sherlock holds him fast. Looking over to Lestrade, Sherlock shakes his head once. Lestrade looks away crestfallen.

Sherlock leans into John’s space, pushing John’s good shoulder to the wall with his chest and stilling most of his movement. John continues to swear loudly. Sherlock brings his lips to John’s ear.

John tenses and goes silent but before Sherlock can speak he yells, “If you tell me that they are both dead, I swear I will kill you myself!” 

There is nothing that Sherlock can say.

A low keening sound begins somewhere in the middle of John’s chest. Sherlock maintains his hold on John as the sound breaks over John’s lips filling the room in a torrent. Lestrade turns away blinking through his own tears. It is the most bloody awful sobbing he has heard in his life. Even Sherlock’s blood runs cold.

Suddenly, Sherlock is yanked forward as John begins to slide down the wall. Sherlock stumbles to regain his footing. Lestrade turns back toward his friends and moves around to help as Sherlock shifts John away from the wall, letting go of his wrist. Lestrade supports one of John’s arms at the elbow and Sherlock supports the other. Both men haul John over to the sofa where they sit him down gently. John crumples onto the sofa, the keening more broken as he settles. After a few moments, exhaustion catches up with him and he takes shuddering breaths as the silence expands into the room.

Lestrade is on one knee at his head and Sherlock has moved to fold himself into the only seat. He is deferring to Greg on this matter. Lestrade motions toward a cabinet. Sherlock trains his eye on it and gets up slowly. He moves to the kitchen, opening the cabinet and pulling down three glasses and a bottle of scotch. He pours two fingers into each glass and caps the bottle with shaking hands.

He hands one over the counter to Lestrade who pushes it heavily into John’s hand. Then he helps John to a sitting posture and encourages him to drink it. John swallows in one go, breathing out the heat as the drink coats his throat and settles into his belly like warm embers. Silently, Greg hands him a box of tissues that Sherlock has produced from the other side of the counter, along with a glass of scotch for himself. John bats the box away and pushes to a stand. He sways heavily on his feet and Sherlock rounds the corner to help him. John holds up one shaking hand and Sherlock drops back. John totters to the bathroom as Sherlock folds himself back into the empty seat.

“What happened?” Lestrade asks in a low voice as soon as John shuts the bathroom door behind him.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“This is for John first,” he replies.

Lestrade pushes up to a stand and turns to gaze out the window.

“Mycroft?” he asks, as he notices a black car parked out front.

“Yes, he’s waiting.”

Sherlock and Lestrade look at one another as the sound of John throwing up comes through the thin walls.

Sherlock makes to stand but Lestrade stills him with one hand.

“It’s not your place.”

Sherlock looks at him beseechingly.

“I know how sorry you are, Sherlock,” he tells the younger man, “but it will be a long while for John to get to that place.”

Sherlock sighs heavily and looks away as Lestrade drops his hand.

The sound of running water starts and then stops. After a few moments, John opens the door with a trembling hand.

“Greg, can I sleep here?” he asks in a rasp, looking at a spot somewhere above the man’s head.

“John, I can-”

“Of course you can,” Greg cuts over Sherlock who is standing up. “Take my bed mate, I will go and meet up with Mycroft and see if I can get you some more information.”

John looks everywhere but at Sherlock. He takes a deep breath and then looks directly at Greg.

“Thank you,” John breathes turning to the bedroom.

“But I can-”

“I’ll wake you as soon as I have any information,” Greg cuts over Sherlock again.

The bedroom door closes behind John and Sherlock rounds on Lestrade furiously.

“I have -” he spits.

“Stop,” Lestrade tells him, placing the same hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, rooting him to the spot.

“John does not want to hear a word you have to say right now, Sherlock. He knows why you are here. He needs someone he believes to be objective to deliver this -”

“He thinks I orchestrated this?!” Sherlock demands, voice rising.

“Keep your voice down!” Lestrade hisses, crowding him back and into the kitchen, as far away from the bedroom door as he can get.

“Of course he doesn’t honestly think that, but he isn’t thinking straight right now,” Lestrade tries to explain. “He looks at you and sees the Grim Reaper.”

“Grim Reaper?” Sherlock trails off. 

“Nevermind,” Lestrade says dismissively. “Why don’t you and I go downstairs. We’ll talk to Mycroft. Then, you two can go and do whatever needs doing and I’ll come back up here and wait until John wakes up to give him the whole story.”

“I should just leave?” Sherlock asks uncertainly, looking over at the bedroom door.

Lestrade follows Sherlock’s gaze. He turns back to Sherlock with a sad expression.

“Yes, Sherlock,” he tells him. “I honestly think that would be best for right now.”

Sherlock looks for a long moment at the closed door.

“If you think that’s best,” Sherlock says breaking his gaze and looking down at the floor.

Lestrade pats Sherlock on the forearm.

“Let’s go talk to Mycroft,” the older man says softly.

~~

 

Greg looks in on John who is sleeping spread-eagle across his bed, atop his covers. Greg grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa and spreads it gently over John who doesn’t move a muscle.

Thinking John is good for a few hours at least, Greg heads out, shutting the door of the flat softly behind him. He bursts out onto the pavement and comes upon Mycroft and Sherlock both leaning against the black car, smoking silently.

Lestrade pats absently at his jacket pockets and Mycroft immediately produces a fag and lighter that he hands over without a word. The DI lights up and inhales deeply. He stands before both of the men and the three continue to smoke silently. He shuffles his feet back and forth. Finally, it’s as if a hand is clawing it’s way out of his throat.

“Please Mycroft,” he croaks brokenly, “was it one of mine?”

Mycroft shakes his head swiftly standing straight.

“All of our people performed admirably,” Mycroft tells him.

“Then what the hell happened?” Lestrade asks.

Mycroft tosses his fag to the ground and toes it out. He takes a deep breath and looks over to Sherlock who is gazing intently up at the window to the DI’s bedroom.

“They were chased by helicopter,” Mycroft says.

“Helicopter?” Lestrade asks.

Mycroft nods and pauses to light another.

Sherlock looks toward the Detective Inspector.

“The helicopter took out the police car with an anti-tank missile,” he says flatly.

Lestrade’s eyes grow wide.

“We hadn’t anticipated the length to which Moriarty would go to silence Mary Morstan,” Mycroft tells him.

The older man nods. “And you are sure it is him?”

“Well,” Mycroft says, “it might not have been him directly, but if it was a foreign agency or a black op, it had to have been spurred on at his behest. Mary has been out of that game since she went to work for him and that was years ago.”

“Once the police car was dispatched, the helicopter dropped a car which it had hung on a wire. This vehicle forced them off the road and into a swampy lowland. It appears that there were no survivors among the reeds and cattails,” Sherlock says, as if Mycroft had never spoken.

“How is that possible?” Lestrade asks, “These people were trained; they were the best of the best.”

“We’re running tox screens now,” Mycroft says. “There has to be some explanation.”

The DI nods his head.

“Does John know?” Mycroft asks.

Lestrade shakes his head.

“It was all too much after everything else that happened tonight; he’s passed out on my bed.”

Mycroft nods in understanding.

“Well Sherlock, perhaps we should be getting out of here,” he suggests.

Sherlock tears his gaze away from the window and looks to Lestrade who is nodding his head. 

“I’ll contact you after I have a chance to speak to John; to explain,” he tells the younger man.

“Shouldn’t I be there?” Sherlock asks.

“Let me talk to John first and I’ll call you if he wants you to come over,” Lestrade tells him. “Sherlock, you need to understand you may need to be patient for a while.”

Sherlock looks wary.

“I understand,” he says softly.

“He knows,” Mycroft states.

Sherlock glares angrily at his older brother.

“We all need to do what is best for John right now,” Lestrade reminds them both.

The younger man nods his head, turning from Mycroft to look back up at the bedroom window, a wistful expression on his face.

“He’s having a nightmare,” Sherlock says, turning to pin ice grey eyes on Lestrade. 

Lestrade looks to Mycroft questioningly. The elder brother raises his eyebrows and nods his head curtly. Then the older man turns and rushes back up the stairs to his flat where he can hear John stirring behind the bedroom door.

DI Greg Lestrade opens the door and steps one foot into the room as Dr. John Watson lets out a blood-curdling scream, causing all the hair to stand up on the back of Lestrade’s neck.

John sits straight up in bed, clutching the covers to him and gasping short, hard breaths.

Lestrade hangs back. He has seen PTSD before and he waits for John to come back to himself.

After a few moments, John unclenches the sheets and turns tired eyes toward the door. 

“Greg,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, mate,” Greg responds.

“Is it true?”

Greg steps farther into the room.

“Is what true?” he asks, unsure of how much awareness John has gotten back.

“Mary? My daughter?”

Greg takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, John. Truly, I’m sorry,” Greg replies, as John lowers his head to his knees and begins to sob anew.


	10. Pink Roses

John Watson sits up in his large double bed in the bright yellow bedroom that he had shared with his wife until a week before, just as the sun breaks over the horizon on the hardest day of his life.  John has had hard days in the past, especially since meeting Sherlock Holmes.  But this day - on which there would be a funeral service for his wife and unborn daughter - was going to be the hardest one yet.

John walks mechanically down the stairs to his kitchen, where he makes a pot of coffee and one slice of toast.  He fumbles in the cabinet for some peanut butter and honey.  He places the honey on the counter, glancing aside - thinking of Sherlock, thinking of bee hives and Sussex.

The toast pops suddenly and he warily pulls it from the toaster and spreads some peanut butter and then honey on the solitary slice.  He flops into his chair and begins chewing methodically when there is a knock on his back door.  

John does not respond and after a few moments, the door opens a crack and Greg Lestrade peers into the small kitchen.

“Hey, mate,” Greg says quietly.

“Greg,” John answers.

The Detective Inspector enters the small kitchen and pulls the door shut behind him. He stands tall in a three piece suit, tailored on Savile Row; a gift from the Holmes brothers.

“You know, it’s safer if you lock this thing,” Greg states motioning to the door and sliding into the seat across from John.

John flashes a panicked glance in his direction and Greg stands hurriedly.

“I’m sorry, John, I should have realized -” he says backing up and waving at the table.

John takes a deep breath.

“No, please Greg,” John says, “I don’t mean to be ridiculous.”

John sighs around his last bite of toast.

“You’re having breakfast,” Greg observes, “That’s good, very good.

“Do you want something?” John asks after a few minutes.

“Coffee, if there’s any left,” Greg replies.

“I made a full pot,” John answers.

Greg bustles around the small kitchen making himself a cup of coffee.

“If I spill this on this suit,” Greg begins.

John cracks a smile.

“No one is coming here after the, uh…”Greg looks to John whose smile turns to a frown.

“Sherlock has set something up at a restaurant down the road from the cemetery.” John chokes on the last word.

“Oh right, right,” Greg murmurs. “Have you spoken to him then?”

John scowls but does not respond.

Greg leans against the counter and sips from his coffee.  He opens his mouth to speak.

“I do not want to speak about Sherlock Holmes.” John’s voice is shrill.

Greg nods his head quickly.

“Excuse me while I shower,” John mutters, quieter.  “Make yourself at home.”

Greg continues to nod, as John shuffles out of the kitchen and heads up the stairs to the bathroom nestled between the baby’s room and the room he shared with Mary.

 

~~

 

John cringes as he sits in his cheap three piece suit in the first pew of the small country church.  He refused to accept a new suit from the Holmes brothers and he curses himself for it now.  He did not realize that there would be two separate coffins.  

John closes his eyes as he remembers Greg’s voice telling him that the paramedics on the scene performed an emergency C-section in the hopes that they would be able to save the baby… John’s daughter.

But it was all for naught.

John opens his eyes, smoothing imaginary creases from his cheap suit.  He sees the minister speaking but cannot make out the words.  Greg is sitting to his immediate right.  The older man puts a steadying hand on John’s thigh and John releases a breath he did not know he was holding.  He glances around quickly as the minister continues to speak - sad platitudes that he probably says at every funeral.  John and Mary did not attend church after the wedding so this man is a stranger to John, like many others in the room.

As he looks around dazedly, John sees Sherlock in the last pew sitting alongside his brother and Anthea. Somewhere in his midsection, a feeling that passes for surprise, registers in John’s person. He knew they would come - of course they would.  But seeing them there, sitting stiffly in the last row, honestly made his breath catch.

He sees sitting a few rows closer, Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson and a few others from New Scotland Yard. Toward the front he also sees Janine and Sarah Sawyer, sharing the same pew.  He recognizes a feeling of gratefulness blossoming in his person.  These people he knew, mixed in with the many he didn’t.

In the pew opposite him sit Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and his sister, Harry.  John reacts with surprise when he notices that his sister did not sit with him, but as he thinks on it, he realizes that he hasn’t seen her once since Sherlock contacted her with word of Mary and his daughter’s death.

Greg is helping John to his feet and he is looking at both coffins - pearly white with beautiful trim.  The trim on the tiny one is pink and it makes John hurt on the inside.  He sucks in a ragged breath and feels Greg’s hand at his elbow.  He looks to his friend gratefully.  Greg leans in to John’s side.

“Cemetery,” Greg breathes.

John straightens his soldier’s frame and walks out behind the two coffins.  Mike Stanford and some of his friends from the army act as pall bearers for Mary however, John and Greg take the small coffin between them and place it carefully into the back of the hearse.

The ride to the cemetery is a short one.  John glances over his shoulder to look at a shiny black headstone as he gets out of the limousine and his breath catches in his chest. In a moment, the view is obscured by the consulting detective, Mycroft and Anthea, walking carefully in his direction.  John pulls a heavy sigh and turns his back on them.  He and Greg lift the small coffin and carry it to rest alongside the large one, over the gaping hole in the ground.  Greg turns and helps John to navigate the terrain and sits on one side of him as Mrs. Hudson sits on the other for the graveside service.  

Sherlock hangs to the back of the large crowd and does not approach the burial site.  The funeral director tries to hand him two roses - one white and one pink and he visibly blanches.  It is the only emotion the man has shown in the week since he entered Lestrade’s small flat.  John notices, but there is no recognition from him as he remains motionless before the large crowd.

The funeral director announces the location of the luncheon and the gathering begins to disperse.  John holds two different colored roses in one hand and two reeds and one cat tail, that Greg had brought him from the swamp in Brighton in the other.  He continues to sit as the rest of the party throws their flowers into the shared grave and he accepts their condolences graciously as they leave.

After a time, the only people who remain with John are Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Harry, Sherlock and Mycroft.  Even Anthea has gone to wait in the car.  John stays seated until most of the cars have left the cemetery - following the funeral director to the nearby restaurant.

He stands steadily and steps two paces until he can look down over the edge of the grave, where the cemetery workers have lowered the coffins.  He looks up and meets the eyes of one of the men from the NSY color guard that DI Lestrade had secured on his behalf.  The man, who John suddenly recognizes as DI Dimmock, bows his head just slightly and a lone tear and a small smile appear at the same time on John’s face.

“Thank you,” he breathes.  And turning to the officer he does not know, but recognizes all the same he says in a stronger voice, “Thank you.”

Greg grasps John’s elbow as he tosses both roses into the grave site.  He keeps the reeds and cat tail in his other hand, clutching them with white fingers.  Mrs. Hudson and Molly step up beside John and toss in their flowers.  Both women cry silently, for which John is grateful. They walk a few steps away and wait while Harry comes up next to John.  She tosses in her flowers and turns to her brother.  He remains stoically looking forward at the gravemarker recently engraved with his wife and daughter’s names.  Harry opens her mouth to speak, but Greg shakes his head quickly and she sighs, closing her mouth and turning away in the direction of Molly and Mrs. Hudson.

The tension under the small canopy ratchets up as only Mycroft and Sherlock remain.  Molly hurds Mrs. Hudson and Harry to a waiting car and she drives the three of them away.  John takes a deep breath and Greg moves to stand closer to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“You need to let them say their goodbyes,” Greg says in an undertone.  “You know John, this is not their fault - neither Mycroft nor Sherlock.”

John does not respond and he does not break his stance as he remains at attention, looking forward at the headstone.

Mycroft approaches first.  He comes to stand alongside John and he tosses his two roses in with a broken breath.

“John, if I -” he begins.

“Mycroft,” John cuts over him, still looking directly ahead,  “I know you mean well, but please, don’t speak. Nothing you say will change what has already happened.”

Mycroft presses his lips into a thin line and nods his head once, turning on his heel and heading toward the car holding Anthea.

Sherlock still has not stepped any closer, choosing to remain a few meters back and away from under the canopy. He stands with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets and his shoulders hunched.  He looks at John who won’t acknowledge him and then to Greg, who motions for him to come forward.

He takes a step toward John and then another.

John turns his head slightly to fix his gaze on Sherlock who stops mid-stride and meets his friend’s eyes.

Instantly Sherlock shifts and he is walking briskly away from John, the gravesite and the car holding Mycroft and Anthea.  His shoulders tremble with his silent sobs.

“Sherlock,” John says brokenly, but the word is stolen on a sudden gust of wind.

“Let him go,” Greg tells him, as John shifts imperceptibly in Sherlock’s direction.

“He blames himself,” Greg says as John’s shoulders sag and he looks down into the graves of his wife and daughter.

“He can’t fix this,” Greg says, “and he can’t abide anything not under his control.”


	11. The Bouquet

Greg follows John away from the gravesite to the only car left in the cemetery.  He waves his thanks to the workers who stand in the shadows - for giving John as much time as he needed before leaving.  John takes the reeds and the cat tail into the car with him.  He leaves the roses at the gravesite, but could not part with these last reminders of what might have been.

The two men arrive at the luncheon about a half hour after everyone else.  People are milling around - talking quietly, drinking wine and eating off of an overflowing buffet table. Greg steers John through the maze of people and tables, looking around until he recognizes Molly’s things at an empty table toward the back of the room.  He thinks she will be sitting with Mrs. Hudson and Harry so he feels that is a good place for John to settle down.  Mrs. Hudson swoops in and begins clucking over John just as soon as he arrives, so Greg sends her off to fill a plate and find them some water. Greg then gently takes the cat tail and reeds from John’s fingers and passes them to a server, asking they be wrapped for John to take home. John relinquishes them and then passes a shaking hand over his eyes.

Greg motions quickly to the server, asking for a glass of scotch, but John shakes his head so Greg asks for tea instead.

John sits at the outer edge of the table.  Greg settles in next to him, in the chair closest to the wall.

People filter past John in groups of twos and threes.  They share their stories of knowing Mary, most often speaking about the beautiful wedding just months before.  None speak about the baby. The absence of it rankles on Greg’s nerves, but John does not remark about it. The car accident story is told as the truth; the parts about the helicopter and Moriarty however, are left out of the story shared for public consumption.  John continues to nod his head kindly, giving everyone who is grieving his personal attention.

After trying to get John to eat a few things from the plate Mrs. Hudson brought, Greg notices Molly standing to the side, watching John with sad eyes. He pushes back from the table and John looks at him with concern.

“Molly,” Greg tells him, waving in her direction.

_Not Sherlock_ \- is what John hears as he turns.  

He nods to Greg then, his expression clearing as another older woman takes John’s hand in both of her own.  He turns to her with a smile on his face and a kind word on his lips as she kisses his cheek.

“The man has the patience of a saint,” Molly remarks quietly, sipping from her tea, as Greg leans against the wall, facing her.

“Has Sherlock come around?” he asks after a few moments, looking back over his shoulder at the people scattered in groups around the large banquet room.  The sound of soft talking is humming all around them and occasionally they hear someone laugh quietly. Life does go on.

Molly shakes her head in answer to the question.

“I saw him at the cemetery though,” she tells him.

He nods.  “Yes, I saw him there too.  I just wasn’t sure if he came by here.”

“I haven’t seen him,” she replies, “And I think we left before he did. He didn’t come with you two?”

Greg shakes his head.

“How about Mycroft?  Did he come by?”

She shakes her head again.  

“No, I saw the car he was in drive past as Mrs. Hudson, Harry and I walked up to the entrance.”

Greg nods again.

“Would you honestly expect Sherlock to come here?” Molly asks, looking around the room as if she might be missing something. “Especially if he didn’t come with you and John?”

“No, not really,” Greg responds easily.  “I just wasn’t sure if he would stop in to make sure everything was satisfactory.  He organized this luncheon for John.”

Molly nods her head and puts her delicate hand on Greg’s forearm.

“You have been a very good friend to John through all this,” she remarks.

He shrugs.

“That’s what friends do isn’t it?”

“I know John really appreciates it… you - he really appreciates you,” Molly ends in a mumble, turning to look away.

“Have you spoken to Sherlock at all?” Greg asks her.

“He came by the lab this week,” she says, turning back to face him, a hint of pink in her cheeks. “He was looking for fingerprints.  He didn’t say much, but he doesn’t usually.”

Greg remains silent as he watches John stand slowly to shake hands with one of the older gentlemen.

“The only thing he did tell me,” she continues, her voice lowering to a whisper “is that he is responsible for this whole bloody mess and he doubts that John will ever forgive him.”

“Did he really?” Greg asks looking back at her with wide eyes.

She nods her head, worrying her lip and looks at Greg questioningly.

“It’s complicated, Molly,” he tells her, holding up a hand to ward off any questions she might think to ask aloud.

She sighs.

“I know.  It’s just that life isn’t right when things are wrong between Sherlock and John.”

John catches Greg’s eye then and he pats Molly kindly on the shoulder, stepping away from her to walk over to John.

“Everything okay?” Greg asks sliding into the seat across from the one John lowers himself into.

John glances around, surveying the room.

“Sherlock?” he asks tiredly.

Greg shakes his head.

“Can I leave now?”

Greg frowns at the plaintive note in John’s voice.

“You can leave any time you damn well please,” Greg says, shifting in his seat.

John lays a hand over his forearm from across the table.

“Thank you for everything,” John tells him.

Greg takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“You will bring me to Baker Street?” John asks, pulling himself heavily out of the seat.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Greg asks, standing as well.

Molly walks up to them.

She leans in and gives John a kiss on the cheek but doesn’t say anything.

John looks at her steadily.

“Harry?” he asks.

“She left before you arrived,” Molly says uncertainly.

John nods.  

“It’s to be expected,” he tells her kindly.

“Do you want us to take Mrs. Hudson?” Greg asks John.

“I can take her,” Molly offers quickly.

“Thank you, Molly,” John replies.

He surveys the emptying room and hesitates.

“You just go,” Molly tells him, “everything here is fine.”

“Greg, I need the -” John begins.

Greg carefully picks up the small, wrapped bouquet from the center of the table.

“I had them wrap it for you.  I don’t want it to get ruined,” Greg explains.

John looks at him gratefully and takes the bouquet, absently pressing it to his chest.

Greg steers John back out of the room and over to the front door.  He realizes then that they have no car, the one from the funeral home left hours ago

“I’ll get us a cab,” he tells John, pushing open the front door and walking down the street raising his hand into the air.

After a moment, John joins him on the pavement as a black taxi pulls up to the kerb.

“Baker Street,” Greg tells the cabbie as he and John climb warily into the back.  “221B”

John lays the bouquet across his lap and rests his head on the back of the seat, eyes dropping closed as the cabbie pulls smoothly out into traffic.  Unfortunately, it is going on rush hour so the drive will take longer than John hopes.  Greg keeps his silence, just gazing out the side window, looking at a London that seems darker somehow, more foreboding.

“Want me to come up?” he asks turning to look at John’s silent form as they finally pull onto Baker Street.

“Nah,” John says, keeping his head back and his eyes closed,  “No need.  But thank you.”

“Are you sure today is the right day to have this discussion?” Greg asks.

“There is no right day to have this discussion,” John tells him.

“Okay then,” Greg says simply, as the cab pulls up to the kerb and John opens his eyes, blinking slowly.  He clutches the bouquet with one hand and reaches back for his wallet with the other.

“I’ve got this,” Greg tells him.  “I’m just heading on home from here anyway.”

John nods his head and climbs out of the cab.  He offers a hand to Greg as he hears the low sound of violin music drifting out from an open window above them. Greg glances up toward the flat.

“Are you sure you have to do this now?” he asks again, shaking John’s hand firmly.

“It’ll be fine, Greg,” John tells him giving his friend a tired smile.

John shuts the door of the cab and taps on the roof indicating the cabbie should pull away from the kerb.  He stands for a moment, watching the car drive down the road, listening to the slow melancholy tune he does not recognize.  After a moment, he turns, pulling his key from the inside pocket of his jacket and opening the front door.

John steps in from the outside, pulling the door shut behind him.  He slips the key back into his jacket pocket and holds the bouquet tighter to his chest like a talisman. He knows that Sherlock is aware he has arrived.  The music takes on a sudden tense feel, unlike any music that John can remember Sherlock playing.  He takes a deep breath and slowly climbs the seventeen steps, quietly pushing open the door at the top of the landing.

Sherlock continues to play, his back to the door, his form in silhouette surrounded by the setting sun. He is still in his suit jacket. John sees the tense set of his shoulders. It looks almost painful, the way Sherlock draws the bow over the strings.  John wonders how long he has been home.  

Without speaking, John carefully places the wrapped bouquet on the table next to his chair.  He shrugs off his own suit jacket and lays it on the chairback. He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top button of his collared shirt and his wrists at the cuffs.  He picks up the bouquet in one hand and sinks onto the sofa, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes.  He realizes as he does so that the chance of him falling asleep here is much greater than the chance that Sherlock will stop playing so they can have a real conversation. He honestly doesn’t care.

The music changes then, to a melody that John recognizes. The tension ebbs away.  It is soothing, a song that would weave its way through John’s nightmares, leading him out - away from the violence of Afghanistan and those horrible dreams he would have of Sherlock laying bloodied on the pavement.  John rests the bouquet on his lap and breathes in time with the music, feeling his chest expand for the first time since a week ago, when he arrived at the dilapidated house on the outskirts of London. Just before drifting off, John remembers to be dissatisfied.  He knows he should be angry with Sherlock for manipulating this as well as everything else.  He just doesn’t have the energy to care.


	12. Tightly Strung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - Triggers for Drug Use

Sherlock plays the violin until he is sure that John is in a deep enough sleep to remain undisturbed.  Then he turns around slowly and lowers the instrument. His back is stiff and his shoulder aches.

The silence is loud and John shifts suddenly on the sofa.  The bouquet slides across his lap, dangling precariously over the floor.  Sherlock sucks in a quick breath and does not move.  He is terrified that the bouquet will fall to the floor and the cat tail will break. This would be the worst thing.

John stills so Sherlock places his violin and bow on John’s chair and pads to the sofa on silent feet.  He carefully slides the bouquet the rest of the way off of John’s lap and turns to place it in the center of the low table.  He straightens up and walks silently to his room, grabbing an extra pillow and a blanket and returns to the sleeping John. Putting the pillow down where John is beginning to slump on the sofa, Sherlock leans toward him carefully.  He places a shaking hand on John’s upper arm and exerts a steady amount of pressure.  After a few moments, while Sherlock holds his breath, John slides down and settles onto the pillow.  He automatically swings his feet up onto the sofa as he does so.

Sherlock opens the blanket and covers John gently as John burrows farther into the pillow, making an unintelligible noise.  It does not sound angry, but Sherlock quickly moves back to his violin.  He picks it up and plays for a short time, until he can hear John’s breath, slow and steady in the darkened room.

He takes it in turns to play.  When he is not playing to sooth John’s shifting and mumbling from the sofa, Sherlock sits in his chair, eyes fixed on the sleeping form. He tries not to think too much about the need that is eating him from the inside out.  Perhaps he even dozes himself with his eyes open.  Occasionally when John stirs, Sherlock catches himself coming back to consciousness, blinking his eyes quickly.  This lasts throughout the night and into the mid-afternoon of the next day.

Sherlock is playing softly, facing out of the window, as John wakes into consciousness, the gray afternoon hanging gloomily around him.  He takes a deep breath and rubs his hand over his face.  He remains curled up on the sofa.  He had not slept much throughout the week and he feels he could sleep through a few more days for sure.

“Sherlock,” John croaks finally, shifting on the sofa.  He sees the bouquet in the center of the low table and looks over to where Sherlock stands still playing at the window.  “Please tell me you have not played all night.”

Sherlock draws out the last note and remains standing for a moment.  He hears sharp edges in John’s words - even now, full of worry and concern for Sherlock.  Sherlock swallows heavily and lowers the violin slowly.

“Did you sleep at all?” John asks gently, rising onto his elbows.

Sherlock turns to look at John.  His expression is unreadable.

How can John still care?

“I only played if it seemed you were becoming anxious,” he tells John flatly.  “I had hoped that you would remain asleep.  You needed to get some rest.”

John nods his head and looks at Sherlock with tired eyes.

The detective continues to wear his suit from the previous day. The only difference is that the suit jacket is fully unbuttoned.  He fidgets at the window and then leans over to place his violin in its case. His hand lingers for a moment after he locks the clasps. John notices the tremor but does not bring attention to it.

“I’ll make tea, John,” Sherlock declares, rushing quickly into the kitchen.

John closes his eyes heavily as he hears the sounds of running water and the banging of ceramic mugs.  He realizes that he is covered with a blanket and has a pillow.  He lays back on it and takes a deep breath, before pushing the covers to the side and standing up with a stretch.  He walks quietly to the kitchen in his rumpled suit pants and collared shirt and leans on the doorframe, looking in at Sherlock who is watching the kettle intently.

“Do you have any food?” John asks, after a long moment.

Sherlock does not look at John, he just moves through the kitchen, taking out a loaf of bread, some butter and orange marmalade.  He pulls the toaster toward him on the counter and slips in two pieces.  The kettle whines and Sherlock fills both mugs with boiling water, splashing just a little on the counter.  He puts cream, butter and marmalade onto the small kitchen table which John notices is free of all science equipment.  Then he places John’s mug of tea at his usual spot.

John slips into the chair pulling the mug toward him and wrapping his hands around the warm surface.  He closes his eyes and for a moment feels immeasurably better.  

The toast pops and Sherlock puts it onto a clean plate and places it down gently in front of John.

“Thank you,” John murmurs, sipping his tea.

Sherlock moves quickly out of the room and into his own bedroom where he shuts the door with a quiet click.

John munches his toast and thinks about nothing.  He stares unseeing into his tea as he hears the shower in the bathroom.  He looks at his watch, still around his wrist.  It is close to four.  He continues to eat and looks carefully around the small kitchen.  Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary.  He quirks his head to the side, listening as he hears steps on the stairs.  The flat door opens and Mycroft steps in.

John frowns as Mycroft shuts the door behind him.

“John,” he says quietly.

“What brings you here, Mycroft?” John asks, leaning back in his chair and regarding the elder Holmes quizzically. .

“I expect you know the answer to that question, Doctor,” Mycroft replies.

John takes a deep breath.

“You’re sure he’s using?” he asks after a few moments.

“Are you sure he’s not?”

John frowns again, furrowing his brows and looking around the small kitchen.  He gets up quickly as the water from the shower continues and he moves into the sitting room.

“In the bedroom,” Mycroft tells him, pointing with his umbrella, but keeping his eyes on John.

John opens the door to Sherlock’s bedroom and steps into the neat space looking carefully over every flat surface.  Nothing.  He squats and pulls up the edge of the duvet to see underneath the bed.  He bites his lip as his eyes sweep over a long, thin, wooden box shoved haphazardly to the center and he reaches out to pull it to himself.

Clutching the box to his chest, John shuts the door to Sherlock’s room and returns to his spot at the table. He does not make eye contact with Mycroft. Pushing the empty plate away from him, he sets the box down gently and opens it carefully.  He is not surprised by what he finds inside: individually wrapped syringes and two small bottles of a chalky white liquid sitting atop crushed red velvet.  

“I don’t have to tell you, Dr. Watson, that my brother is in a precarious state of mind at the moment,” Mycroft tells him, leaning on the door frame.

John does not reply.

“Sherlock is struggling to handle his guilt over this situation and he is absolutely not himself,” Mycroft continues.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” John bites out as the water in the bathroom turns off.

“I’m not sure that a confrontation right now would be the best thing,” Mycroft murmurs.

“You should know that I don’t blame you,” John says, changing the subject and meeting Mycroft’s gaze.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and presses his lips together into a thin line.

Neither man speaks for a moment.

“I am incredibly sorry for what has happened, John,” Mycroft says softly, shifting away from the door frame.

For once, John believes him.

“I know you are, Mycroft,” John tells him, “and for that reason I know I can count on you to help me.”

“He cares about you very deeply,” Mycroft says softly after a few moments.  “I worry about him; constantly. He’s not himself right now.”

John nods.

“You need to trust me to handle this,” he tells Mycroft.

Mycroft frowns but does not reply as the bathroom door clicks open and Sherlock walks into the sitting room wearing pajama pants and a dressing gown.  His hair is still damp from the shower and his face, which John sees in profile, is baby smooth from his shave.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says warily, tossing his head in his brother’s direction.

“Brother dear,” Mycroft answers, turning toward him and leaning on his umbrella.

John stands up and walks past Mycroft into the sitting room.

“We need to talk,” John tells Sherlock firmly.

Sherlock begins shifting piles of papers on his desk and does not respond to John.

“I said we need to talk,” John says again, crowding into Sherlock’s space.  He notices the younger man is trembling, but he still does not acknowledge John.

John grabs a fair wrist then and yanks it toward him.

“Stay where you are, Mycroft,” John says at the same time.

Mycroft shifts but does not advance and Sherlock looks from his brother to meet John’s gaze. His wide eyes narrow in defiance.  John slowly turns the hand over and begins to push the sleeve up on Sherlock’s dressing gown.  The young man tries to twist and shake John off, but John holds him firmly.

“How many times?” John asks angry now, as he sees new track marks across Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock looks away.  His teeth almost chatter, he is shaking so violently in John’s grasp.

John backs him up against the desk.

“I asked you how many times,” he hisses, “and you better damn well answer me.”

Sherlock clears his throat nervously.

“John,” Mycroft begins, a note of warning in his voice.

“I told you to back off,” John barks, glancing over his shoulder at the elder Holmes.

“Twice,” Sherlock whispers, his voice cracking as he shudders.

“When was the last time?” John demands.

Sherlock looks to Mycroft for support, but Mycroft looks away.

“The last time?” John hisses, squeezing Sherlock’s wrist until he grimaces.

“John, I must insist,” Mycroft begins stepping over to where they stand crowded up against the desk.

“Yesterday,” Sherlock answers quickly, “after the funeral.”  

Sherlock ducks his head and hides his face from John.

John throws Sherlock’s arm from him and turns on his heel. He hears the sound of Sherlock’s knuckles as they connect with the wood of the desktop, making a loud hollow sound that echoes through the room and in John’s heart.  

John paces a few meters away and then rounds on Sherlock a steady finger pointing in his direction.

“I do not need this right now, Sherlock,” he says, his voice rising.

Sherlock does not respond or look at him.  He just licks his lips, continuing to tremble.

John realizes then that Sherlock has fixed his gaze onto the open box on the kitchen table.  John can almost feel the need pouring off of Sherlock in waves. Mycroft realizes it too and also turns to look through the kitchen door.

“Don’t move,” John barks at both of them as he marches over to the kitchen, both men watching his back.

John scoops the vials up from the velvet lined box and he smashes each in the bottom of the kitchen sink, washing them down the drain with cold, clear water.

A wounded sound comes from Sherlock.

John clutches the edge of the counter and hunches over taking a few deep breaths as he feels both men still watching him.  He turns around slowly.

“We need to talk,” he says tightly.  “Mycroft, take your leave. There’s nothing more for you to do here.”

Mycroft looks from John to Sherlock who remains standing and trembling near the desk.

“Listen to him, little brother,” he suggests, as the elder Holmes turns then and lets himself out of the flat.


	13. Shattered

As soon as the door clicks shut behind Mycroft, Sherlock stiffens his back and walks over to sink into his arm chair, keeping a wary eye on John who has begun to walk toward him from the kitchen.  John is seething.  He knows on some level that Sherlock’s addiction is something he will fight for the rest of his life and that it makes no sense for him to take this relapse personally but it fuels his already sparking anger.

“Where the hell were you yesterday, Sherlock?” John demands placing his hands on the back of his chair which faces Sherlock’s.

Sherlock does not reply.  He looks at John with wide blinking eyes.  John sees that the pupils are still unusually large.  

“Left early?  Came home to get your fix, did you?” John presses, a mocking tone in his words.

Sherlock looks away, shifting his gaze back to the open box sitting on the kitchen table. John follows the line of Sherlock’s sight and feels something break inside of him.

“Tell me why, Sherlock -,” John says angrily. “Why wouldn’t I expect you would be here shooting up like the junkie that you are?! Why would I expect you to approach me at the gravesite and give your condolences like any normal person?”

“I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock observes, steepling his fingers under his chin. He is unable to still the trembling and he knows that John sees this. The scene reminds him of one from years before.  Even then it was about Moriarty and Sherlock’s own need to play the game.

John advances on Sherlock, standing tall above him as he sits in the armchair.

“Just once, Sherlock,” John exclaims, jabbing a steady finger in his face, “just once it would be nice if you could get out of your own head and think!”

Sherlock bristles.

“Think about someone other than yourself for a change!” John finishes, spinning on his heel and marching away from him.

“I have never pretended to be something that I’m not, John,” Sherlock tells him.

John notices that Sherlock moves his hands to run them continuously over the arms of the chair. John is unsure if this telegraphs Sherlock’s need for a fix or his anxiety at their conversation.  It makes him even more angry not to know the difference.

“To think Sherlock, you even had me convinced that you might actually care!” John spits. “Care about me, about Mary, but especially about the baby. But once again, I’ve just been taken in.”

“We have been over this John,” Sherlock tells him mildly.  “Caring isn’t actually an advantage.”

“You sodding, sodding drama queen!” John shouts, stalking to where Sherlock sits and fisting his dressing gown in both hands. He can feel Sherlock trembling beneath him - whether from withdrawal or from anxiety, John doesn’t know.

John leans down until he is eye-level, right in Sherlock’s space.  

“Don’t try to play this off like you don’t care, Sherlock,” he hisses.

John releases the dressing gown in disgust and goes back to stand behind his own armchair.

“You wouldn’t be here getting lost in your drugs if this were just _any_  case,” John tells him, rubbing along the top of his chair with his palm.  “But because _this_  case is about my wife and my baby girl, you decide that the best thing to do is to take a trip - get yourself all strung out - so you don’t actually have to think about the role that you played in this whole sorry tale.”

Sherlock shifts uneasily on the seat.

“This is about my baby girl!” John yells at him, slamming his hand down on the back of the chair.

Sherlock starts and blinks wide eyes at John.

“Whatever it was that you and Mary thought you were doing to protect me - God, I could laugh at your arrogance, the two of you,” John seeths, “The price for that was too high.  Much too high, Sherlock... that price was my own baby!”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and shudders.

John paces from behind the chair over to the low table in front of the sofa where he sees the cat tail and reeds bouquet. He takes another pass and this time stops at the table.  

“We never get this back, Sherlock,” John reminds him darkly, leaning over to pick up the bouquet and handling it gently, “This one stays the way it is. My baby girl, gone...forever.”

John turns holding the bouquet carefully and fixes a steady gaze on Sherlock.

Sherlock begins to tremble more obviously now and he looks everywhere but at John who places the bouquet carefully back on the table.

“Don’t you think that for one moment I will ever forget what you and that woman took from me!” John exclaims, stalking over to stand behind his chair. “I know why you think you had to do what you did; why the two of you had to continue to decieve me.  But I’m telling you Sherlock, as long as I live and breath, I will never again believe that you have the capacity to care - to care about anyone that is, except your own sodding self. That’s not a mistake I will make again!”

Sherlock is out of the chair in a shot, crossing the room and slamming his bedroom door behind him.  

John yells in frustration and kicks at the side table.  He spins around and returns to the kitchen, trying to catch his breath and reign in his anger.  He leans over the sink, breathing in gasps and gripping the counter with fingers that are white at the knuckle. It’s all he can do to remain in the kitchen. He’d much rather cross to Sherlock’s room, force open the door and pummel the man with all the anger and hurt that is clawing it’s way out of his chest.  John turns around, back to the counter and sinks to the floor.  He buries his head in his hands as tears stream freely down his face.

Sherlock remains in his room and John remains in the kitchen - for how long he isn’t sure.  When he comes back to himself, he thinks it’s possible he even dozed off for a time.  His body is aching and he slowly lifts himself back to a stand.  John puts on the kettle and makes his way slowly around the kitchen getting tea. He moves his shoulder gingerly back and forth, flexing his hand and trying to loosen his muscles.  He thinks about eating, but his stomach clenches.  Between his grief and his feelings of unease about the argument with Sherlock, he doesn’t think he can manage real food at the moment.

There isn’t much in the kitchen anyway so John takes his tea and makes his way over to the sofa and pulls out his phone.  He sends a quick text to Greg Lestrade.

 

~~

 

John hears Greg’s steps on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson must have let him in the door. John cringes as he thinks of their landlady listening to him yelling at Sherlock. John gets up slowly and pulls open the door to the flat before Greg even knocks.  He enters carrying three shopping bags and a rucksack and walks directly into the kitchen where he puts them onto the table, sliding the open, wooden box out of the way.  

“Hey mate,” Greg says.

“Greg,” John replies.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asks, frowning into the open box.

“In his room… asleep, I pray,” John responds tiredly, beginning to dig items out of the shopping bags.

Greg indicates the box with his hand.

John nods.

“Where’s the stuff?” Greg asks.

“I washed it down the drain,” John tells him.

Greg smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“How bad?” he asks.

“Well, he told me it’s been twice - as recently as yesterday after the funeral,” John tells him.  “Mycroft was here earlier and he didn’t contradict anything Sherlock said.”

“Do you believe him?” Greg asks.

“I think twice might be optimistic,” John replies. “We didn’t spend too much time together, but it was obvious to me that he was still coming down off his high.”

Greg shakes his head.

“Thanks for this,” John says, indicating the rucksack of clothes Greg had gotten from John and Mary’s house.

“You okay, mate?” Greg asks after a long moment, as John drifts around the kitchen putting things away.

“Been better,” John tells him honestly, leaning against the counter with a bottle of milk in his hand and a long, low sigh.

“You two talk?” Greg asks, moving past John to grab the kettle and fill it with water.

John laughs darkly.

“If by talk, you mean did I yell at him and completely lose my temper? Then yeah, I did that,” John says ruefully.

“Look, don’t beat yourself up,” Greg tells him.  “I don’t know how you handle him on a good day.  He’s put you through quite a lot over the past few years.  All that has to sort eventually.”

John frowns and moves to the refrigerator, putting away the milk..

“I haven’t quite said my peace just yet,” he continues turning around, “I was too busy yelling.  The rules of this game are changing, Greg, and Sherlock is going to need to understand that.”

Greg nods.

“I want in on this hunt for Moriarty,” John explains.

Greg continues to nod.

“Anything that you know Greg - anything that you would be sharing with Sherlock...  I’m done with these hide and seek games,” John warns him.

“I get it,” Greg says, “I understand.  You have my word.”

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The kettle whistles and both men jump when it is followed up with shouting from Sherlock’s room.  John makes to go in that direction, but Greg holds him back.

“Leave it,” he tells him.

John looks at Greg and frowns.

“I’ve done my time with this John,” Greg reminds him.  “He doesn’t like to be coddled or fawned over.  Just leave him be.  He’ll turn up if he wants your sympathy.”

“What a sodding mess,” John says under his breath.  “This whole thing is such a sodding mess.”

Greg hands John his mug and they both sit at the kitchen table talking quietly. The talking tapers off to silence as they hear Sherlock throwing up in the bathroom.  John makes to stand, but Greg stops him again.  John sinks back onto his chair and both men look at one another silently.

“How long did he sleep?” Greg asks when they hear water running at the bathroom sink.

John looks at his watch.  “About three hours, if he slept at all,” he replies.

Greg shakes his head.  

“Probably the only sleep he’s had this week,” he says.

“I expect,” John agrees.

“You staying here tonight?” Greg asks.

“Yeah, I’m going to put clean sheets on my bed upstairs,” he replies.

“You’re a good friend, John,” Greg tells him.

“If I were a better friend, I’d have been here long before last night. And I probably would have done with a bit less yelling.”


	14. Rules of Engagement

The flat smells of curry chicken when the door to Sherlock’s room clicks open and he wanders down the short hall throwing himself onto the couch. It is going on noon of the second day that John has been at the flat.

Sherlock won’t look at the bouquet still on the center of the low table.  He is paler than usual and his skin is drawn, making the hollows beneath his high cheekbones even more pronounced.  He pulls the dressing gown even tighter and shifts until he is facing the wall, a lanky frame taking up the entire space of the long couch.

 

~~

  
John works methodically in the kitchen - mixing, stirring, measuring.  

_ It’s nice to do something that has an order to it. _

He hears the door to Sherlock’s room click open and he smiles a little knowing that the consulting detective could never pass up his homemade curry chicken.  John listens as Sherlock settles himself on the couch.  He doesn’t look over, rather he busies himself with the task at hand.  He feels drained from recent events and his life has slowly been dissolving into chaos, so he appreciates this time of automatic movement and comforting smells.  

The curry chicken bubbles briskly on the stovetop and John walks into the sitting room with a napkin, pair of chopsticks and a tall glass of water. He takes the bouquet off of the low table with one hand and sets a place for Sherlock with the other.  Sherlock does not move.

John returns to the kitchen with the bouquet which he takes out of the wrapping and puts into a slender vase, setting it carefully onto the counter.  Grabbing a large plate, he turns to the stovetop and spoons a smallish portion of the bubbling mixture over a small mound of white rice.  He carries this into the sitting room and places the dish in the center of the table.  

“Eat, Sherlock,” he says in a low voice.

The man lying on the couch does not respond.

John heads back to the kitchen where he makes his own plate, a much larger helping.  He sits eating, alone at the table, with his back to the sitting room.  He is hunched over his meal, but his shoulders relax when he hears the sound of Sherlock shifting and pulling the plate over the tabletop.

John remains in the kitchen eating slowly.  After some time, he hears Sherlock push the plate back onto the table.  Sherlock stands swiftly and returns to his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

John moves through the sitting room, collecting the dirty dishes. He returns to the kitchen and gets another tall glass of water which he quickly puts onto the counter in the bathroom, taking the empty one back into the kitchen. John focuses his mind on cleaning up after his homemade meal. He is comfortable back in this space on Baker Street. This seems a contraction because of his discomfort toward Sherlock, but this has always been a safe place for him.  He hears Sherlock moving about his bedroom and then going into the bathroom for a shower.  John piles the dishes in the sink, leaving the hot water for Sherlock’s shower.

John heads into the sitting room and settles himself onto his chair with today’s paper and a tall glass of water.  He scans the pages for anything that might resemble Moriarity’s work.  He realizes with a loud sigh that he really has no idea what he is looking for. His forehead wrinkles and he rubs a hand on the back of his neck. There is a short article on the bottom of page three about Mary’s funeral and he stares at it unseeingly. Thankfully there is no comment about the other tiny coffin.

Sherlock returns to the sitting room in his usual suit, hair damp and face shaved.  He settles at the desk and opens his laptop.

“You’re dressed,” John observes.  “Are you going somewhere?”

John attempts a casual tone, looking over the top of the paper.

Sherlock does not respond but he types quickly.

John folds the paper carefully, the article about Mary’s funeral on the top, and lays it flat across his lap.  He sees a tense line form across Sherlock’s shoulders as he studies the detective from the back. He notices that Sherlock’s hands are steady.

John takes a deep breath.  

“I expect you know what I want by now,” John says, continuing to keep his tone light.

Sherlock continues to ignore him and opens a few additional windows on the laptop.

John shifts in his chair, trying to tamp down on his rising anger.

Sherlock turns around silently and offers John the laptop.  Distracted from his anger, John takes the laptop and turns his attention to the screen.  Sherlock gets up and disappears from the sitting room.

John hears the click of Sherlock's’ bedroom door as he goes through the windows that are open on the computer.  Sherlock has brought up all of the documents he has containing information on Moriarty.  The last two documents make John’s breath catch in his throat.  They contain all the information that Sherlock has compiled about Mary - her work with Sherlock and her own association with Moriarty. The bottom of the last document has all the existing information on their baby.

John begins to scan through the documents. After a short while, he moves the laptop to the desk and digs through Sherlock’s piles until he uncovers a few pieces of blank paper. He returns to the kitchen in search of a pen.  He had forgotten to ask Greg to bring his laptop when he came by with John’s things from the house. Pen found, John settles onto the desk chair and begins to list a series of questions and comments based on what he is reading.  John stays at the desk until he has reviewed every last piece of information Sherlock left for him.  

When he is finished, John pushes away from the desk and checks his watch. He stretches and then goes into the kitchen to make some tea.  He takes out a few biscuits and puts them onto a plate which he carries into the sitting room and puts in the center of the low table. He returns with the slender vase holding the cat tail and the reeds.  This he places next to the plate of biscuits.  Returning to the kitchen, John fixes two mugs of tea and brings them both into the sitting room.  He puts the one that is Sherlock’s on the low table on the other side of the vase and then he settles himself onto the couch with his own tea and waits.

At precisely four o’clock, Sherlock’s bedroom door clicks open and he walks carefully into the sitting room. He stands for a long moment, studying the reeds and cat tail arrangement, then turning to look at John who has still not looked at him.  Sherlock moves suddenly, scooping the mug off of the table and eyeing the plate of biscuits.  He walks over to his armchair and sits, pointedly ignoring the vase.

John stares vacantly into his mug and munches on a biscuit.

“You have questions,” Sherlock observes after a short time, nervously tapping the side of his mug with a long slender finger.

John looks up at Sherlock and gazes at him impassively. He is pleased to see that Sherlock’s eyes are clear, pupils back to normal dilation.

The overnight was tough but Sherlock dealt with it on his own terms, keeping himself isolated in his room.  John heard him throw up a few times.  He kept his upstairs bedroom door open and came down to take care of the bathroom.  He also kept a rotating stock of filled water glasses on the bathroom counter which Sherlock would drink without comment. Neither man really slept until Sherlock finally settled down in the early morning hours.

The curry chicken from lunch had stayed down, so Sherlock blows on his tea, taking small sips.  He does not turn away from John’s gaze.

“If we do this, Sherlock,” John tells him, still holding Sherlock’s eyes in his own, “we will do this together or not at all.”

Sherlock does not speak.

“The rules of the game are changing and you had better understand,” John warns.  “I am only going to say this to you one time.  Just once.  If you so much as neglect to tell me where you’re going, I will be finished with this - with you - and I will end things with Moriarty on my own.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash but he still does not respond.

“I have already talked to Greg and I will have no trouble approaching Mycroft if it comes to that.  For God’s sake Sherlock, you had better understand what I am telling you. This is not a one-man show any longer.”

The silence hangs heavy in the room as both men continue to watch one another and sip their tea.

John looks from Sherlock to the laptop still open on the desk and then back again. He recognizes the apology hidden in the action, but it is not enough this time.  He needs Sherlock to understand - really understand.  He does not speak; he waits. He sees in the line of Sherlock’s jaw that Sherlock is struggling with this new arrangement and so John does not push him.  

John sits and he waits. He gazes at the vase and he remains silent.  He looks back over at Sherlock who is still trying to make some sense of what John has told him.

He can almost see the exact moment when Sherlock realizes that there is nothing he can say, there is no scenario which John will accept which is any less than the absolute truth at all times.

Sherlock presses his lips together in a tight line.

“I am not sorry,” Sherlock tells him.

John breathes out a long breath and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I know,” he acknowledges.

“I would do it all again if it meant your protection, John,” Sherlock admits.

John is silent. He looks away from Sherlock to the vase holding the reeds and cat tail on the low table.  He looks up and sees Sherlock looking at the vase as well.

“She was my daughter, Sherlock,” John tells him without anger.  “That is always and everywhere unacceptable as a possible outcome.”

Sherlock remains silent for a long time.

He finally looks from the vase over to John.

“I understand.”   

 


End file.
